Just A Day
by ChibiAnimeFreak
Summary: Spain and Romano have been living together for over a year now and feelings that were never there before have begun to emerge, along with all the doubts and insecurities that come along with them. Spamano. Fluff! Rated T for Lovi's mouth, and Spain's mind
1. What It's Always Like

**Hola, amigos~! **

**This is my first (ever) fluff/even remotely happy-turning-out story so bare with me as I attempt to **_**not**_** delve into . . . over-angst . . . XD. Anyways, this is **_**also**_** my first posted Hetalia story (not counting the recent prologue that I posted, cus prologues don't count), though I have written more. Just never a first chapter so . . . voila~! **

**Heads up, this is **_**not**_** an AU, they are countries in this. Oh, and I don't own Hetalia; the manga, World Series and Axis Powers all belong to the **_**fabulous**_** Himamura-sensei. Trust me. If they were mine, half of the characters would be angst-filled to the brim. If not all. **

**This is rated T, though I am debating turning it to M debating on my feelings. It really all depends on how long this is, too. Should I just go up to where they realize their feelings or should I make it like . . . a **_**really**_** long **_**really**_** kinda pointless fic? Review~!**

**WARNING: BoyxBoy, Yaoi, gayness, homosexuality ahead. Don't like, please don't read. God knows I don't need **_**more**_** depressing stuff in my life . . .**

**Enjoy~!**

o(.)0(.)o

Lately, Lovino had begun to look more than just cute to Antonio Fernandez Carriedo a.k.a. the Kingdom of Spain.

He was _hot_. He was _sexy_. He was _beautiful_.

Don't get him wrong, Antonio still thought the feisty Italian was extremely cute—no, there was no doubt of that.

It was just that, now, when Lovi blushed it wasn't just a squeal that wanted to escape from the Spanish native. Oh, no. Far from it.

He wanted to grab Lovino by the front of his shirt and slam their lips together; he wanted to push the feisty Italian against the wall and play with all he had to offer; he _wanted_ Lovino Vargas, every bit of him.

Sometimes it took every ounce of self-control Antonio had to resist doing exactly that to the Italian. An Italian who just _loved_ to taunt him by living under the same roof.

The men had been living together for just over a year now. Lovino claimed it was because "my house is lonely without my air-headed brother there, damn it!" Antonio, of course, had simply opened his door to the man, smiling knowingly. _So cute~!_

But, ever since that fateful day Antonio had begun to have strange feelings when he was around his roommate. Usually he just played them off as bad paella or something similar, but he was beginning to run out of excuses. His mind had watched as his feelings for the young Italian he raised turned from fatherly to brotherly into what he now hoped was something like friendship.

Was it changing again? And into what?

Those were just a few of the raging thoughts Antonio shoved from his mind as he wandered down the stairs leading to the living room of his house after waking up one Saturday morning. The sight of Lovino lounging on his rather plush couch and watching a random Spanish _telenovela_ greeted him when he finally emerged into the large room, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes and sporting a rather vicious bed-head.

Yawning, he circled around to the front of the couch, naked feet slapping the tiled floor, to ask Lovi what he wanted for breakfast. No matter how late the Spaniard had woken up, Lovino wouldn't have made it for himself.

"Lov—" Antonio cut himself off when he saw that the man had fallen asleep, curled up cutely on the plush couch. His tight grey sleep T-shirt rode up on his stomach, revealing a not overly toned—but certainly trim—stomach and sloping hip-bones.

A few years ago, Antonio would have simply gushed about how cute the man was and engulfed him in a hug, probably waking up a grumpy Italian in the process.

Now, however, he simply admired the view, taking in the way Lovino's lips were slightly parted, and the serene look covering his face, the likes of which he only seemed to have when he was unconscious.

The Spaniard padded forward cautiously, not wishing to ruin the moment—or get head-butted. _Again_.—, and knelt in front of the other man. Antonio brushed a few stray locks of hair out of the Italian's face, smiling as his hand was nuzzled softly. A gentle warmth pooled in his stomach and he felt a light fluttering in his chest as he removed his hand.

He sighed, turning so that his back rested against the bottom of the couch and threw his head back to rest lightly on Lovino's stomach, half-listening to the crappy show as he pondered.

What were these things he felt? It was mysterious, and nothing like he had ever experienced before.

Whenever the young man got near him, or spoke to him in a certain way, or—though it rarely happened—smiled, he felt a strange feeling, something that wasn't entirely bad, or maybe not even bad at all. It fed him ideas and fantasies that seemed to come from nowhere, not all of which were completely appropriate.

A perfect example was how, right now, he had the strangest urge to lean in and place small, gentle kisses all over Lovino's face; he wanted to deliver one to his forehead, his nose, to each cheek, and, finally, to his mouth, pressing those plump red lips against his own.

But he didn't. Instead, he picked his head up and watched the _telenovela_. The over-animated characters were no more real than usual, and didn't seem to catch his interest. It wasn't like Antonio didn't like the shows—no, he followed them religiously—their fake love lives just didn't seem to compare to his own at the moment.

Wait—love life? No, that can't be it.

_I must be really tired to be thinking like that_.

As if to reinforce his thoughts, he yawned hugely. The colorful sets and people on the TV lulled him, and he didn't resist when his eyes began to droop.

Whatever the feelings were, they could be dealt with later. It wasn't as though they were unpleasant.

Within seconds he was fast asleep, a soft stomach his pillow.

o(.)0(.)o

Lovino's eyes slowly fluttered open, squinting into the light of the television still spewing random Spanish. His mind gradually reawakened, taking in his surroundings.

He was still lying on the couch, he realized, splayed out—though he did have a backache, he noticed—and most of his body was chilled, not cold enough to be in a frozen state, but cool enough to yearn for warmth.

Except for his stomach.

For some reason, there was a source of heat resting on his belly, a soft one, based on the feeling of the material against his bare skin.

Still half asleep—because he would never do such a thing while conscious—he curled around the warmth, trying to pull it farther up his body, and closed his eyes gently in contentment. When the thing resisted movement, he cracked open a single eye. A short second later, both his hazel-green eyes were wide open with shock. A light blush coated his features as he took in the sight.

There was Spain: head lying against Lovino's stomach, mouth open wide in a silly grin, back pressed against the base of the couch. His mouth closed slowly, head turning to the side and rubbing into Lovino's stomach as if trying to make a pillow softer.

Lovino's face turned red as he sat up slowly so as not to wake the snoozing Spaniard. If he woke up to this position, he was sure the idiot would never get over it, hugging and cooing endlessly about how "cute" he was for "letting Boss use him as a pillow" or some shit like that.

He _wasn't_ cute, damn it. And he _certainly_ didn't want to hear that from that damn Spaniard. No, he'd rather the man called him se—sesldng. Yes: Sesldng. That was his new name.

Hey, Sesldng, how's it going?

_Ugh_, he thought ashamedly,_ I don't even believe myself_.

The Southern Italian didn't know why he wasn't throwing the idiot off in a fit of rage. He was sure he would have usually, so why did he hesitate now?

Was it . . . Did he actually enjoy this? No. There was no way he could be happy that stupid Spanish bastard was laying against him. Almost like they were s-snuggling like a c-couple or something. _C-cazzo_.

He did notice a weird feeling in his stomach. It was on the inside, though, so it couldn't be from Spain. It was a weird fluttering something, some kind of . . . of _warm thing_ or . . . maybe it was just nausea. Yeah, a bad tomato or something.

It had been happening a lot lately. The feeling, not the bad tomato thing. N-not that he was saying that it _wasn't_ a bad tomato and that it was actually his feelings towards his former caretaker that were—Ehem.

Pushing the thoughts from his mind and the blush from his face, Lovino reached his hand down to the head laying against his skin to, he told himself, shove it off once and for all so he could get up and retrieve some medicine for his bad stomach, but, instead, he ended up resting his hand against the chocolate locks growing from it. He petted them softly, tangling his hand in the warm curls and rubbing lazy circles around. They were so . . . s-so soft.

He ignored the return of what he now labeled as _The Feeling_, and instead focused on the _not_ wonderful and _not_ softand _not _luscious curls under his fingers. His lithe appendages dipped in and around the small knots that had formed in the chocolate swirls and untangled them slightly, gradually taming the raging bed head.

Lovino was so lost in the feeling of the strands against his hand that he didn't notice Spain open his eyes groggily. Hazy green eyes blinked a couple of times before opening fully.

"Lovi," he mumbled, "your hand feels nice . . ."

Lovino's gaze shot to Antonio's face in shock, and he quickly removed his hand from the Spaniard's head.

"Ch-chigi!"

o(.)0(.)o

**And there you go~! So, please review with your criticism/random gushing/thoughts/feelings/OMGI'mboredsoI'mgonnareviewcusIfeellikeit~! **

**Ciao~!**


	2. I Can Feel Us Sinking

**Yay for chapter two~! This story will probably end up being around five or six chapters depending on a few things, including if I change it to M. I'm probably just going to post either a separate one-shot or a sequel with the scene, though, if it ends up being like that. **

**Anyways, prepare for awkwardness, cuteness and an annoyed Lovino~!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia, nor anything related to it. Sadly, I am not Prussian, therefore not even close to awesome enough to own it.**

**Ah, and a shout-out to my awesome beta, OwlinAMinor~! Okay, fine, I admit, only slightly awesome beta . . . Just kidding~! Te amo, Betsy~!**

o.0.O.0.o

Although not a stranger to being woken up by an angry Lovino, Antonio still didn't think it was anywhere near a pleasant experience.

He sat up, groaning, and rubbed the back of his head. As soon as Antonio had uttered that simple sentence to Lovino while half asleep, he had felt the hard floor meet his really-not-in-the-mood body with a loud thump as Lovino removed him from any and all support the couch had offered. As soon as he was rid of the Spaniard, the Italian had rushed up the stairs, and, after a moment, Antonio heard the faint slamming of a door.

_Note to self: don't talk to Lovino while still half asleep. _

He stood up, stretching, and heard a few satisfying pops as his back and various other joints realigned themselves. As the refreshed feeling naps usually left him with filled his body, he stared up the stairs.

Lovino had been—insanely cutely—rubbing the Spaniard's head. And with care, too. If that wasn't uncharacteristic for him then Antonio was a turtle.

_Not that I would mind that_, he thought happily, a goofy grin stretching across his face.

Antonio shook his head, getting rid of the image of a turtle with a Spanish accent wearing a matador outfit from his mind as he began walking towards the kitchen. Maybe the good smells of a _tortilla Espa__ñola_ would draw Lovi back down!

As Spain arrived in the kitchen and walked over to the cabinet, he directed his rather off-track thoughts back to the matter at hand: his little _tomate_.

Now, it wasn't to say that he had minded the feeling of the lithe hands tracing lazy circles over his skull, but it really was strange. He paused in pulling a bowl from the cabinet, eyes furrowing as his brain attempted to pull up the hazy image his sleep-coated emerald eyes had seen. If his mind wasn't mistaken, he was sure he had seen nothing short of a _content smile_ on Lovino's features. That . . . that wasn't possible. It simply _did not_ happen. Well, except for in his dreams, but he didn't think that counted.

There was that bubbly-fluttering-strange-electric feeling again . . . it was getting quite comfortable in his stomach, wasn't it?

Antonio placed the bowl he'd had suspended in the air on the counter at long last and drifted over to the fridge to retrieve the necessary ingredients: eggs, Spanish onion, and—though it was usually potato—tomatoes. Lovino would tie him to a chair and make the Spaniard watch _in utter horror_ as the other nation ate all of his precious tomatoes if he decided to use the former.

It wasn't long before wonderful smells filled the sizeable, but not uncomfortably huge, kitchen. Spain felt his stomach rumble at the tantalizing scent of the classic ingredients mixing together beautifully make its way to his nose.

Eventually Lovi joined him in marveling the smells, shuffling into the kitchen and not meeting the Spaniard's eyes. He stood off the to side, leaning against the doorframe and observing Antonio with his usual scowl.

Out of the corner of his eye, Antonio watched Lovi, too. He took note of the way the Italian's eyebrows met in the center of his head, a thin line visible between said tufts of hair. Not to say that they were unruly; the thin strips of hair appeared so uniform they almost seemed to be manicured that way. Leading down from the brows was a small, straight nose, framed on either side by eyes of an indefinable color. Even to this day—after knowing the Italian for so long—Spain couldn't quite pin a shade on the orbs. Every day they were different: at one moment an olive green, the next a vibrant hazel, an hour later a soft brown.

If there was one thing that Antonio knew for sure about those eyes, though, it was that they truly were the windows to Lovino's soul.

Anyone who met the rather brash and rude Italian would immediately assume he was nothing but a—to put it in less than pleasant words—cold-hearted, bitchy man.

Antonio, however, knew better.

Hidden within the depths of Lovino's mysterious eyes was an array of different hints about what he was truly feeling. Whether he was angry or sad, annoyed or happy, Antonio could almost always tell simply by peering into those multicolored pools.

Take right now, for example. On the outside, Lovino seemed to be annoyed and angry at the Spaniard, assumedly for misinterpreting his actions as being something caring, but the way his eyes shifted from the Spaniard to the ground and shone with a hesitant light betrayed the fact that he was really just embarrassed at being caught doing something nice.

_He really could just be so cute sometimes~!_

With that thought in mind and an idiotic grin on his face, Antonio finally turned the stove off and removed the pan from the burner before the precious meal within it burned.

After cutting the tortilla in half and dishing it out onto two plates, Spain held the aforementioned plates out towards Lovi, asking him silently which one he wanted. Antonio knew that even if he gave the Italian the bigger of the two pieces he would complain anyways.

"J-just so you know, bastard," Romano muttered as he took the red plate, "I was just getting some . . . some damn b-bugs and—and sh-shit out of your hair, got it?"

Antonio simply grinned, eyeing the reddish tint coating Lovi's cheeks, and said a cheerful, "Of course, Lovi~!" in response. Lovi really was a bad liar.

They both moved to the table and set their plates down with a slight clank, wasting no time in tucking in.

For a while, only the tinkling of silverware and the slightly vulgar sound of food being chewed filled the air, but after a few moments of the near silence, Romano mumbled, "Feliciano called earlier."

Antonio perked up slightly at the sound of the younger Italy brother. Swallowing the bite of _delicious_ egg—with quite a bit of tomato—he was chewing, he chimed, "Ah, and what did Feli want~?"

Antonio could have sworn he saw Lovi deflate slightly upon hearing/seeing his response, but wrote it off as his eyes playing tricks on him. Wouldn't have been the first time, after all. There was that one time when he thought he had seen Lovi lying naked on his bed extremely hor—Ahaha, Never mind.

"He said that he and his stupid potato are throwing a suck-ass party at our house in Rome," Lovino spat out. "Apparently he's inviting all of Western Europe, and, sadly enough, we're part of that God-damned section of the continent."

Antonio frowned slightly. He wasn't unhappy about the party, not in the least, but it seemed like Lovi really meant the anger this time. His eyes were glaring at random objects—never a good sign when it came to indications of sanity, but it was normal for Lovino, so he let it go—and swimming with rage, the now-amber pools alight like liquid fire.

But they were going, Antonio decided; even if he had to drag Lovino there by his hair curl, they were going to Rome.

_Ah~! I wouldn't mind getting to Rome in a _different_ manner~! _

Antonio blushed at the invading thought. Where did that come from? It certainly wasn't what he was _really_ thinking, was it? Oh, there goes that feeling again. Were the eggs expired?

He shook his head, deciding that, if it _was_ the eggs, then he would find out in a half hour when his body deemed it time to rid itself of the spoiled protein.

"It won't be that bad, Lovi~," Antonio reassured him, shoveling another bite of the food into his mouth.

"Yeah, right, because shoving us all in the same house together works every _other_ time we do it," he scoffed.

"Ah, but it doesn't work, Lovi," Spain pointed out smartly, holding a finger up as if to lecture him.

"No shit, Sherlock," Romano replied, taking a sip of his tomato juice.

"But you said—"

"Never mind, _idiota_," he cut Spain off, rising from his chair to clear his now empty plate.

Antonio rose with him, grabbed his own blue plate, and followed the retreating Italian—ha, retreating Italian—to the kitchen. Antonio found his eyes drifting lower on the other man, eventually reaching a point where he was watching his ass as he sashayed through the doorway. Spain's green eyes were latched upon the pert, round backside, watching, enchanted, as it shifted with Lovino's every step.

He resisted the urge to reach forward and just _touch_ it somehow. Whether it was a smack or a grope or just simply a poke, Antonio wanted to feel the soft muscles mold under his fingers.

But he wouldn't do it. Would he? No.

For one, it was just plain weird. They were friends! Although France seemed to find it appropriate to grope his _amigos_, Antonio knew it wasn't exactly normal.

Then there's the fact that Antonio wasn't suicidal. He was sure that if he even so much as _thought_ of _thinking_ of touching it, Lovino would kill him. By way of castration. With a _spoon_. Or something similarly horrible. The Spaniard had been on the receiving end of many of Lovino's threats and _dios_ was he creative.

And, of course, there was the million-dollar fact that _Antonio himself had no idea why he wanted to do it_.

It was one of those unexplainable urges that he'd been having recently. Similar ones being the wont to throw Lovi against a wall and take him right there. Of course, that wasn't happening either, for more obvious reasons.

Spain really was getting tired of all of these fantasies, though.

_I'll figure out a way to get rid of them by the time the party arrives_, he vowed to himself, determined to be able to have a fun time at the _fiesta_ without having to worry about doing random, inappropriate things to Lovi.

Just as Antonio finished that thought, he ran into something—something that turned out to be Lovino, a Lovino who happened to already be up against the sink, rinsing his plate off to be put in their dishwasher.

"Oi, _bastardo_, watch it!" Romano growled, scowl in place. "I almost dropped your fucking plate!"

"Ahaha, sorry, Lovi," Antonio chuckled, not moving from where he was, still pressing Lovino against the sink. His arms snuck around Lovino's waist to place the plate in the sink to be washed as well.

Lovino took it differently, though.

"W-what are you doing, _s-stronzo_?" he panicked, face turning pink as Antonio rested his head on the shorter nation's shoulder to better see what he was doing.

"I'm washing the plate, Lovi~!" Antonio cooed in response, still not moving from their strange embrace.

Antonio didn't know why he was doing this. It had just seemed like a good opportunity when he saw Lovino like that. Of course, his mind had wanted him to do something else entirely, but Antonio could have a strong will if he wanted. Sometimes.

"So, _tomatito_," Antonio whispered in Lovino's ear as he scrubbed the plate, "when is this _fiesta_ that you mentioned?"

"N-next Saturday," Romano muttered, turning his face away from Antonio's, but not before the bright red hue coating his cheeks became obvious to the taller man.

Spain chuckled lightly, finally pulling away from Romano to place the plate in the contraption to the right of the sink. He saw the Italian visibly relax when his arms left his waist, as if a very strict instructor had just left the room and he was now allowed to slouch.

Antonio watched as Lovino finished rinsing the plate, blush still present, and handed the Spaniard the wet dish.

As he stood up from putting the plate away, Antonio clapped his hands together, sending little droplets of water flying, and addressed Romano, "So, what should we do today, Lovi~?"

Lovino shrugged, looking anywhere but at the tan Spaniard before him.

"Oh," Spain remembered, "I'm going out with Gil and Francis later, so I won't be home for dinner."

He glanced at the clock attached to the stove. The display read quarter past one; Gil was coming at around six so they could go a get a quick bite to eat before hitting whichever bar/club they ended up deciding on.

Lovino seemed to deflate slightly, but he quickly composed himself, shrugging and walking over to the couch. He plopped down after grabbing the remote and gestured to the empty spot next to him.

"I don't care what the fuck you do, bastard," he said, never breaking eye contact with the TV, "but what else are you gonna do for four fucking hours?"

Antonio grinned, knowing that Lovino just wanted to spend some time with him, and sunk onto the couch next to the Italian, settling in for a relaxing afternoon.

Spain could tell that something was still wrong with Lovi, though. Whether it was because he was leaving soon, or the party, or just plain embarrassment, Antonio couldn't tell, but there was _something_.

Spain simply shrugged mentally and, glancing across at Romano, couldn't help but notice that he looked extremely beautiful when he pouted like that, lip jutting out slightly and deep olive green—for now—eyes narrowed. Especially when he didn't know it.

While Antonio was busy pondering his newfound revelation, Romano took the time to look back at his former caretaker. The two stared at each other—Spain eventually breaking out of his reverie to lock eyes with the Italian—in silence, neither wanting to look away and yet both wanting the other to do so.

_His eyes . . . is it bad that they make me feel so . . . so strange?_

It was Lovino who broke the contact first, muttering something about creepy Spanish bastards.

Antonio simply grinned as the man blushed lightly, flustered. The fluttering feeling came back, stronger than before, but this time it was because of something good: his _peque__ño__ tomate_ being utterly cute.

_Maybe it's not such a horrible thing after all_, he thought brightly, reaching over to ruffle the Italian's hair lightly, laughing when he smacked Spain in response, _but I still want to know what it is_.

o.0.O.0.o

**And there ya go~! Read and review please~! I like to hear your criticism since I'm not used to writing this kind of thing~! **

**Chibianimefreak out~!**


	3. It's Just Not Possible

**EDIT: Just reposting this to fix a few grammar mistakes I found upon rereading the chapter after it was published and to fix the name of the author of Bottoms Up! Thank you Lilah for that.. (I forgot your username and am too lazy to look it up... meh...). Oh, and someone asked what "datum" is; it's the singular version of data~! Yes, I am a freak like that, thank you very much...**

**FINALLY. Gah, this was so close to being late. I wasn't having trouble writing this, per say, I was just kind of stuck in Antonio's POV . . . But don't worry, reading some of the lovely story**_** This Dance**_** by the lovely Sunny Day in February fixed it right up~! (But seriously, go read it. That and her sequel to it **_**Bottom's Up!**_**, both of which are awesome.) **

**Anyways, even after writing this, I feel like nothing happened in this chapter . . . I planned to do so much more but 2000 words crept up on me, and I really felt like that was a good place to end it . . . oh well . . .**

**But enjoy~!**

**Oh, and I don't own Hetalia. Even Prussia isn't that awesome, and I am nowhere near Prussian.**

o.0.O.0.o

There was only one thing more annoying than a Spanish television show: an actual Spaniard.

Romano was lounging on the light brown leather sofa, half-watching some random Spanish comedy show, and half seething at the_ utterly stupid hunk of Spain _lying on his lap.

No matter how many times Romano lifted that damned giddy Spanish head off of him, it somehow just bounced right back onto his legs. Throw it onto the floor? Nope. Punch him on the temple? Nope. Pray to _Dio_ that he would go the hell away? Nope.

He just wouldn't. Fucking. Get. _Off_.

The Italian had been pondering his dilemma for a few hours now, ever since Antonio had fallen asleep. _How much time can that guy spend unconscious,_ he wondered, _he wakes up late to begin with, takes a nap, and now he's sleeping again!_

_Damn lazy bastard . . . _

And Lovino definitely hated it! No matter how warm and nice the head may have felt resting against his thigh, it was completely _not_ something he would ever even consider liking.

Something in his chest was aching, though, in a very strange way. It was definitely something . . . _new_.

_Maybe I'm allergic to Spaniards now_, he thought with a snort. If that were, for some strange reason, the case, Lovino would have to move back to Italy, something he wouldn't mind doing at all. Yeah, he wouldn't miss that idiot one bit!

Romano ignored the sudden feeling of sadness that engulfed him at the thought of leaving Spain, both the country and the person. _There's no reason to feel like that_, he told himself sternly.

It wasn't just ridiculous hypotheses as to why he was feeling strangely that Romano came up with, though; his mind came to more realistic conclusions, too: for example, the fact that maybe something was wrong with his economy—more so than usual—and it was simply affecting his body the way it normally did.

Whatever the case, Romano wanted to get rid of the fucking creepy feeling that seemed to subjugate his chest whenever that damned Spanish bastard was anywhere near him. It was fucking annoying!

The Italian glanced down into his lap, the place where the stupid almost-more-airheaded-than-the-most-airheaded-half-country-in-the-world person was still happily using the comfortable fuzzy-pajama-pants-covered space on Romano's thigh as a pillow once more.

He examined Antonio, sneakily exchanging glances between the Spaniard and the TV. Antonio's face wasn't an ugly one; no matter how much he would deny it, it was kind of really handsome. His skin was tanned, but not so much so that he was obviously Latino, and his face was slightly strong-jawed in an elegant sort of way. Occupying said face was a straight nose, moderately thin lips and his eyes, the likes of which were closed at the moment.

Antonio seemed fairly average overall when it came to looks, but it was a combination of his eyes—when they were open—and his hair that really made him step over from "just normal" to "this guy is kind of hot".

Not only were the nation's eyes the brightest, clearest green Lovino had ever seen, they also shone with such a happy-go-lucky light that it was hard to not relax and feel safe around him. Lashes that almost seemed too long for a man, but somehow worked on Antonio, and his hair, which sometimes got long enough to obscure his sight, kept that brightness inside in some mysterious manner, taming it and making it completely Spain's.

When it came to Antonio's hair, Lovino had always believed that it was simply meant to be that way. Never once had the Italian seen Spain run a brush through it in an attempt to do more than rid it of troublesome knots or put any kind of product into the strands, yet the hair always sat on his head in a perfectly windswept, curly mop.

Lovino had always wondered whether the strands were as soft as they looked. He blushed as he remembered how he had finally found out that morning, in a situation that really wasn't that much different than the one now. And there they were, tempting him to entangle his hands within them again. They seemed to call out to him, telling him to reach down and just pet them already.

_Maybe I could feel them just once_, Lovino thought, _but only 'cause they won't let me get away, damn it! _

With his pride properly defended, he went to reach down once more, as he had that morning, but before he could get any farther than an inch from his own body, a loud slam and an overly_ German_ voice could be heard ringing through the house.

"_Toni!_" Lovino heard Prussia yell from the entryway. "_Ready for an awesome time? You better be, 'cause this is gonna be really awesome—after all, you'll be with me, the awesome Prussia!_"

Romano panicked, trying for yet anther damned time to push Antonio off of him, but to no avail. The idiot just mumbled nonsense under his breath and nuzzled Romano's thigh. Pushing away the blush that occurred as a result of the movement, Lovino attempted to brainstorm how to wake up the Spaniard before the egotistic potato came into the room.

"_Franny and I picked out an awesome place to check out! Just opened up two weeks ago!_" Gilbert called, this time closer, probably from the kitchen.

Suddenly, an idea hit Lovino. It was slightly disgusting, but definitely effective. He stuck a finger in his mouth and proceeded to coat it in a thick layer of saliva, most definitely _not_ blushing at the message he could have been projecting.

Deeming it ready, he pulled the appendage from his mouth and plunged it into Spain's waiting ear with abandon.

After a moment, and at the same time Prussia felt the need to emerge from the kitchen, Spain popped up, shouting out in Spanish. The no-longer-slumbering-man sat up, back erect, on the couch.

Prussia froze in the doorway, his red eyes shifting dubiously from Lovino to Antonio and back. Romano watched with chagrin as the man took in the scene before him: Spain, still slightly drowsy, yet sitting up straighter than Austria when playing the _fortepiano_, face slightly pink and hand rubbing his ear; Lovino, eyes averted from any and all contact with the Spaniard or the Prussian, face a faint tomato-y color, and arms crossed, annoyed-looking; both of the them sitting on the couch with no more than eight centimeters between them.

"Kesese," Gilbert hissed with a smirk, "finally tapping that, huh, Toni?"

Antonio blushed slightly, shaking his head and still holding his ear as though the extremity had just been burned.

Lovino blushed harder, as was, sadly, expected of him, and crossed his legs, pouting like some school girl—boy! Schoolboy! He was a boy, damn it!

Gilbert simply shrugged, grinning in a way that made Lovino think he wasn't really letting it go. Knowing the egotistic bastard he would probably just wait until Spain was fairly inebriated before bringing it up again.

Finally releasing his ear, Antonio stood up and stretched slightly—and no, Lovino most definitely did _not_ take a glance at his ass—saying, "Okay! _Estoy listo!_"

Prusia nodded, sparing one last glance at the two roommates, and headed out through the kitchen, calling behind him for Spain "to hurry up, _verdammt_, Franny is waiting in the car, and we both know what happens when he's left alone too long!"

Lovino dared to glance back at Spain, turning his head towards the man again, and was rewarded—though he used the word lightly—by a blinding grin.

"See you tomorrow, Lovi~!" he sing-songed to the Italian, still smiling as though Lovino was the best thing he had ever seen, but not making a move to leave the room.

Lovino blushed even harder, eyes looking anywhere but at the unnaturally warm expression on his roommate's face. When he did finally spare a glance at Spain, he saw the man leaning in slightly. He approached the Italian, closer and closer with every passing moment, torturing him with the sluggish pace of his advancement.

N-not that he wanted that idiot any closer than he already was. Of course not—that would mean that he actually _liked_ the bastard. And that wasn't possible. In any universe. In any reality. In any time period. And Lovino would know—he had lived through more than a few time periods with the oblivious Spaniard.

Romano sat stock-still, hazel-brown eyes wide and terrified, as the idiot approached. His heart sped up, pounding in his chest like one of those big Japanese drums Feliciano had told him about a few weeks ago, and he felt his body heat up a few degrees, making him sure his face was glowing a bright red.

Just at the point where the half-nation was able to feel the Iberian's breath on his face, the older nation hesitated, an uncharacteristic dash of insecurity flitting through his emerald eyes.

Lovino watched as a Antonio leaned back and plastered a new grin onto his face, albeit a bit less bright than before. The Italian remained frozen, unable to move, liquid fire still racing through his veins.

Spain laughed nervously, scratching the back of his head (something that Lovino had noticed the Spaniard tended to do when he was nervous) and started shuffling out the archway backwards, mumbling, "O-okay, I'll just go now. S-see you later, Lovi."

Antonio turned after tripping over his own feet—the clumsy idiot—and, not less than ten seconds later, Lovino heard the sound of a door shutting.

Romano let out a shaky breath, one that he had not known he had been holding, wondering off-handedly whether it was from relief or some other foreign feeling— _Dio_ knew he had been experiencing enough of those lately.

More consciously, he wondered what the hell Spain had intended to do—and why the hell Romano wished the other country had gone through with it.

As the southern half of Italy slowly calmed himself down enough to begin to sort-of-almost-maybe think rationally, he fell back onto the couch, listening to the thoughts running through his brain.

It had almost seemed as though Spain was about to . . . to _kiss_ Lovino. And, for some completely unfathomable reason, Lovino didn't think he would have objected had the other nation not chickened out.

On top of all that—as though he needed any more—there was the way Romano's body had _physically reacted_ to being in close proximity to the other man to think about.

He clutched at his head, shaking it slightly in frustration.

_The facts_, the single sane though breaking through the other frenzied ones told him. _I'll just state what I know and draw a conclusion, like some badass sleuth or something. _

Finally having set a track to the nonsensical whirlwind that was his mind, Lovino set to laying out the various pieces of datum stored in his brain.

Fact One: Weird Stomach Feeling.

As much as Lovino would have liked to pin it on some bad food, it was simply too constant for that to be the cause, and seemed to plague him _only_ around the Spaniard. Plus, it had occurred during what he had now deemed "The Leaning Incident."

Fact Two: Other Physical Reactions.

Besides the Weird Stomach Feeling, Lovino had recently been experiencing symptoms of what could possibly be diagnosed as a heart disease; his face would flush; his heart would speed up to unhealthy levels; his blood pressure would skyrocket.

Fact Three: Mental Reactions.

He hadn't fucking minded it. That was the most vexing part to the half-nation. If Antonio had finished moving forward and . . . actually . . . _k-kissed_ the Italian, Lovino was almost sure that he, as much as it pained him to think it, wouldn't have moved away.

Of course, his pride had a different thing to say—it was telling him that he almost certainly would have pushed the older man away, bitch slapping him in the process, for even _considering _thevery_ notion_ that Lovino could have _any_ feelings _at all_ for Antonio.

And what kind of feelings—not that he had any at all—would cause Spain to act as he did?

As he ran these facts over in his head, one thought kept popping into his mind. No matter how many times Lovino installed the stupid pop-up blocker, the damned little ad kept coming up.

. . . Not that it actually was an ad flitting through his head; that'd be _really_ weird.

The little thought was persistent though; it kept showing up within confines of his mind, begging that Romano accept the inevitable.

_You love him._

Antonio Fernandez Carriedo. Spain. His former boss. His current friend. His roommate. The tomato bastard.

It was not a possibility, not something that he could even consider. It was too weird, too strange. This was the _man who raised him_ he was thinking about.

Lovino simply could not have feelings for that . . . that _idiota_, that _bastardo_, that huggable fucknut.

So what if he felt weird when Spain was around? So what if he wanted to feel the man's hands travel up his sides sensually, or knead his ass into submission? So what if he wanted to press those obviously soft lips against his own in a bruising kiss?

That didn't mean that Lovino loved the bastard.

It simply couldn't.

. . . Could it?

o.0.O.0.o

**And there ya go~! Hope you liked it~! And don't worry, something **_**will **_**happen next chapter . . . And then the one after than—or maybe in that one, I don't really know—we'll see what the Bad Touch Trio is up to~!**

**Chibianimefreak out~!**


	4. Seeking Advice

**Okay, I know I said something like this last chapter, but this time the chapter really **_**was**_** hard to write. For some reason I keep thinking that my chapters are choppier than they apparently are. According to my friends, that is. Anyways, tell me if you think it's choppy or something. **

**Okay, so, this is another chapter in Lovi's POV, but the next one will be in Antonio's. And then we'll finally get to see what the Bad Touch Trio is up to~! Ah, and I actually got where I wanted to with this one! Kind of . . .**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia or any of its characters or anything associated with it. Nor do I own Jeopardy. Or its theme song.**

**o.O.0.O.o**

The matter of something like _love_ was not possible for Lovino, especially towards someone like Antonio.

It was _Spain_. Lovino couldn't possibly love _Spain_ of all nations/people. He was so . . . _Spanish_. Antonio was nothing but an airheaded, goofy, country bumpkin. There was no way that Lovino could feel _anything_ for the idiot, let alone_ love_ him.

The more he tried to convince himself otherwise, though, the more it made sense. Either that or a heart disease, and he highly doubted the latter. He _was_ a country, after all.

As much as Lovino hated to say it, it was . . . highly plausible that he was—shudder—_in love_ with Spain. The person, not the country.

_Maybe I should call Feliciano_, he thought suddenly, immediately berating himself for even considering such an option.

What would that spacey idiot know about something like this? He didn't have any experience with this kind of thing. Except for a very long-lasting, successful, sex-full—he'd had his fair number of traumatizing phone calls/conversations in the past years—relationship with his potato.

Oh. Well, then.

Maybe it wasn't the _worst_ idea. . .

Maybe it was even a _good _idea . . .

Damn it.

Lovino stared at the side table holding the old phone. It wasn't so ancient that it had that stupid dial thingy—_Dio_ had he hated that—but it wasn't on of those sleek cordless phones either. It still had the old-fashioned curly-cue wire that was more annoying than anything—except maybe listening to Veneziano, Spain and Poland have a conversation.

And it was the worst color _ever_. Romano imagined it had once been white, but after existing for so long in such a used part of the house, it was now more of an odd off-white shade. Not grey, but _cream_. And he really didn't want to know how it got that way, either. Especially because when Antonio had tried to tell him the story, he had started off with "Well, France . . ." Needless to say that had turned him off from the tale very quickly.

Anyways, no matter how interesting describing a phone is, Romano was still contemplating whether or not to pick up the not-quite-old-fashioned-but-very-odd-colored-almost-ugly phone and call his brother.

It was a matter of life or death. Somewhere, someone's life was depending on whether or not Lovino picked up that phone and dialed the long-distance cell phone number that would probably end up being answered in _Germany_ and not Italy like it should be.

. . .

Okay, most likely not, but still, it was possible, right? Right?

_Fine_, Lovino finally sighed, _I'll call Feliciano. But not 'cause I want to, damn it!_

He reached for the phone, propping himself up awkwardly to do so, and stretched his arm out. Just as his fingertips were about to brush the off-white contraption, it _rang_.

Romano jumped and retracted his arm as if burned, staring at the phone as it vibrated slightly with each ring. What the fuck? Damn psychic phone . . . It was probably conspiring against him ever since that one time. He hadn't meant to drop the damn thing in there. Really.

It gave another ring, startling Romano out of his phone-conspiring thoughts. Oh. Maybe he should answer it now.

He grabbed it off the cradle and held it to his ear, spitting the words out with as much annoyance as possible, "Who the hell is this?"

"Veh~!"

No. Fucking. Way. The damn little brat beat him to it!

"_Fratello_~! I missed you~!"

"Yeah, yeah," Lovino mumbled back reluctantly, pushing down his misdirected anger. It _had_ been a while.

"You'll never believe what happened last week! I . . ." he tuned out as Feliciano ranted. Something about pasta and a trip to the dentist.

Romano's own mind wandered back to exactly what he had been thinking about for the past half hour. No, not the fucking phone.

Antonio. And the possible feelings that _did not exist_ that Lovino _did not_ have for him. He didn't even know how to begin to bring the topic up with his younger brother. At best it could be slightly awkward and embarrassing, at worst it would be mortifying and Feli would tell Antonio everything.

"Veh~! Lovi are you listening?" Feliciano interrupted his thoughts.

"Y-yeah, of course, idiot!" Lovino sputtered.

"But I asked you a question and you didn't answer~!" Veneziano whined, obviously hurt.

Shit.

"R-right. I was just . . . just thinking, damn it! Something that I am _completely_ capable of! Unlike you and that Spanish bastard . . ." he answered quickly.

Quite a nice save, if he did say so himself. Yeah, he was just that badass.

"Veh~! You just answered, Lovi~!" Feleciano cheered slightly.

Wait—what?

"So you and Big Brother Spain are the same, then, veh~?"

And he repeats: wait—what?

"I asked you about how you and Toni are doing~!"

A-ah. That . . . that made sense.

And . . . made his task a lot easier, actually. Saved him the trouble of bringing up Antonio.

"Y-yeah," Lovino mumbled, wondering how to continue the conversation in that direction, "about Antonio . . ."

"Hm? Did you two finally get together?" Feliciano asked airily. "That's so great~! Veh~! We were all wondering when it would finally happen~!"

For the third time: wait—what?

Lovino was very glad his brother couldn't see him at the moment, because that meant he couldn't see the way Lovino was gaping like a fucking idiot. _Finally_? What the hell did Veneziano mean by _finally_?

They weren't . . . there wasn't . . . they couldn't be . . . huh?

"What do you mean 'finally'?" Lovino questioned harshly. "And 'all'? Who the hell is 'all'?"

A laugh sounded on the other end. His brother had such a soft, tinkling, utterly _annoying_ laugh.

"Everyone knows you two like each other~!" Feli exclaimed happily, voice simply radiating fucking rainbows and wisdom. Yes, both are possible. When you're Feliciano, at least. Well, the second is more rare than the first, but only he could pull both off the same time.

"Who is 'everyone', Feli?" Lovino spoke slowly, as if talking to a small child. Might as well have been . . . if small children could get high off pasta.

"Everyone is _everyone_, Lovi~! All the countries~!" Feli pointed out smartly. "Veh~! All the countries that know you, at least~! Like Ludwig, and Elizaveta, and Gilbert, and . . ."

Romano listened in horror as the northern half of his country started to list names off.

Everyone. Every-fucking-one of his friends/acquaintances/enemies _knew_. Fucking hell . . .

Wait.

Wait a second.

Knew . . . knew _what_? Knew that . . . that he and Spain . . . _liked_ each other? But . . . but they didn't!

Shit! And Feliciano thought they were together! Together like b-boyfriends. Gah.

" . . . and—"

"Wait—Feli!" Romano cut his brother off frantically, shaking his head in denial despite the latter not being able to see him. "We're—Antonio and me—we're not together! I . . . I just wanted advice on something."

"Veh . . . ?" the usually cheerful nation veh-ed questioningly. "What's wrong, _fratello_?"

"Um . . ." Romano licked his lips nervously, shifting the phone to his other ear, "it . . . it involves Antonio and I. I was . . . I wanted to know if . . . Well . . ."

"Veh~?"

Lovino could almost see his brother's head cocked to the side curiously. It was oddly comforting, actually.

He took one more deep breath and finally asked what he had been wanting to this entire conversation, "I've been feeling—and acting—kind of . . . _strange_ around Spain. I was w-wondering if you knew what it could be."

"Weird how, veh~?" Feliciano questioned, voice full of airheadedness.

"Weird like . . ." Lovino groped for the words, "like I want to hold him all the time, and I don't actually mind when the bastard's around for once a-and I feel all jittery and nervous and . . . and . . ." he trailed off uncertainly.

Romano's heart beat unsettlingly. It thumped in his chest like a fist hitting a wall, or a wrecking ball smashing into a building, or like the bass beat in a hip-hop song. So many fitting analogies for such a foreboding sound and feeling. He swallowed the lump in his throat, hoping beyond all hopes that his brother wouldn't come to the same conclusion he himself had earlier.

Romano waited, taut, for Feliciano to finally respond. It took ages—and quite a few verses of the Jeopardy song in his head—for the northern Italian to finally give an answer.

"I know what it is, Lovi~!" Feliciano finally said happily. "That's how I feel around Luddy~!"

And Lovino's hopes were shattered. Not only was Feliciano nearly confirming his earlier worries, but he was comparing it to him and Germany, the sappiest, most disgusting couple of all the nations.

That meant . . . That meant that Lovino actually _did_ like Spain, maybe even loved him. A lot. Enough to make him want to tolerate the idiot's presence. _Maledizione_ . . .

Somehow, it didn't surprise him as much as he thought it would, though. The thought of loving Spain, of holding him, and kissing him, and wanting him in a completely different way didn't really sound too bad to the Italian. It almost sounded kind of nice.

A-and maybe he wouldn't completely mind the bastard doing the same things to him. It was something he could learn to tolerate. With the uttermost annoyance, of course.

"Lovi~," Veneziano cooed, interrupting Romano's thoughts, "you and Antonio will make such a great couple~!"

The slightly older nation felt himself fill with annoyance and a bit of anger, "What do you mean 'will', damn it? J-just cause I _might_—_might_, damn it—have some kind of f-feelings for the idiot does not mean we will be a couple!"

Lovino paused his ranting a moment, a single thought hitting him with the force of Spain's pet bull: _What if Antonio doesn't like me back?_

The prospect scared him like very few things had before. It wasn't the kind of terror that spouted from a battle or seeing the death of his friends. It wasn't comparable to the Italian Wars, or even the World Wars. The fear was more of a deep-set nervousness, one that sprouted from in his chest and sent a deep chill over his body. It was a psychological fear, the worst kind.

Romano felt frozen, completely terrified of the thought. Then there was always the problem of getting from "friends" to "boyfriends", if they were to do such a thing.

And if Antonio _did_ feel the same way.

Lovino must've been thinking for a while, because when Feliciano spoke again, his voice was tainted with an uncharacteristic note of worry, "Veh, Lovi~? Are you okay~?"

"Y-yeah," Romano muttered, "never better . . ."

The younger Italian brother was silent for a moment before replying, "Okay, then."

He didn't sound as though he believed Romano in the least.

Anxious to get out of the already embarrassing—and now more than slightly awkward—phone call, and to absorb his new-found conclusion, Lovino hurriedly spewed an excuse, "Feli, I've gotta go. I have, um, a pizza in the oven."

"Veh, okay, _fratello_. _Arrivederci_~! _Ti amo~!_" Feliciano replied, back to his cheerful self.

"Yeah, _arrivederci_ and all that," Romano muttered, cheeks heating slightly.

"Veh, wait, Lovi!"

Aforementioned Italian paused in pulling the oddly colored phone from the side of his head, and sighed, "What is it, bastard?"

"Don't forget the party's next weekend~!" Feliciano cheered, veh-ing at the end.

"Yeah, I know," Lovino muttered. "Can I go now? The pizza's gonna burn . . ."

"Oh, veh~, hurry, _Fratello_~! Bye bye~!"

The line clicked before the Italian currently sitting in Spain—no, not like that, perverts—could get a last word in.

He set the phone down with a click before simply falling back onto the couch, olive-green eyes staring listlessly at the plain ceiling.

"I love Antonio," Lovino breathed. Then again, louder this time, "I love Antonio. I really love Antonio."

He gave a small laugh at the thought. It was ridiculous that the southern Italian could love the largest—and stupidest—of the three Iberian countries, and yet it was true. It was a fact that now could not be called false.

The words had felt strangely natural falling from his lips, as if it were as expected as the inevitable fact that water descends from a cliff to form a waterfall.

And Lovino found he didn't dislike the feel of the phrase forming from the movement of his mouth, from the flicking of his tongue against his teeth and the morphing of his lips. It was almost liberating to say the words, as if a great weight were lifted off his shoulders.

For the first time in a long while, Lovino Romano Vargas genuinely smiled.

**o.O.0.O.o**

**I almost wanted to put a line saying that now Romano actually wants to go make a pizza, but decided against it…. Meh… **

**Read and review please~!**

**Chibianimefreak out~**


	5. Not Like That

**Whew, just barely got this done in time. It's still Wednesday, yay~! Anyways, this one was easier to write than the past ones, luckily. I've noticed that I seem to write better on Wednesdays for some reason XD. Oh, and the nameless bar they're at does not exist. Well, it probably does, I just didn't have a specific one in mind. Though I don't know of a bar that wouldn't yell at its customers for wrestling on the floor . . . *****shrug***

**Oh, and I apologize for this being almost late and not beta-ed. The not beta-ed part is cus we're on vacation and so she wouldn't have anyway of getting it to me... Yeah... And the almost late bit is cus I had an essay to write and a powerpoint to make and I told myself "Hannah! Prioritize!" and this is kind-sorta less important than school... Or society seems to think it is XD.**

**Disclaimer: No. Just no.**

o.0.O.0.o

A depressed Spaniard, especially one named Antonio, is a rare sight, one that everyone at the small, newly opened bar on the streets of Madrid had a chance to see that night.

Antonio was currently sitting on the bar stool, slumped over the length of the table languidly, his glass of rum clutched loosely in his hands. He stared into the amber liquid—an old comfort of his—with a distracted expression.

No matter how many girls tried to flirt with Antonio or how many drinks he downed, his mind kept drifting back to the feisty Italian occupying his home. He kept imagining the lithe body, harsh, yet somehow warm, eyes and auburn hair.

Every little thing reminded Spain of Romano: the lone swear on the opposite side of the room, a flash of olive eyes, a glance of tan skin. These tiny things all drew the younger nation to the Spaniard's mind, making him believe himself to be more than slightly mad.

Antonio sighed for what felt like the millionth time that night, catching the attention of his French friend.

"_Antoine_," the Frenchman addressed the moping Spaniard, swirling his glass of deep red wine in one pale hand and lounging elegantly on the bar stool beside Antonio, "what is troubling you? You are not yourself, _mon cher_."

Antonio waved his hand in dismissal. "It's nothing."

Gilbert, who had previously been chatting up a young lady—one who looked mysteriously like that country near America—turned back to his friends upon hearing their conversation, and grinned.

"Heh, Antonio is just thinking of that little bitchy Italian, the totally unawesome one," the self-proclaimed awesome country smirked, downing the last of his beer. It was somewhere near the albino's fourth or fifth round, yet he didn't seem anywhere near drunk to the eye.

Antonio didn't reply, deciding instead to take a small sip of the liquid in his glass, feeling it burn the familiar path down his throat and settle warmly in his stomach.

"Hm?" Francis raised an eyebrow, intrigued, "Romano?"

Antonio again ignored his friends, feeling a slight warmth cover his cheeks at the mention of the man who had been occupying his brain nonstop all night, though it could have simply been the liquor causing the rosy tint.

"Yeah," Gilbert's smirk widened, "I walked in on some pretty suspicious business goin' on in there."

He wiggled his silvery eyebrows suggestively; the motion, Antonio assumed, was supposed to be suggestive, but really only ended up making him snort into his arm in laughter.

"Ah," France gasped, displaying an amused look at the display, "so he is alive in there."

He nudged Spain with his hand, finally convincing the Spaniard to sit up completely and send an annoyed look Francis' way.

"I'm pretty sure I'm alive," Antonio said. He poured the remainder of his rum down his throat, signaling to the bartender to bring another one, and sighed. Antonio ran a hand lazily through his tousled locks before addressing his friends, "Fine. I admit, I have been feeling—" he waved his hand in the air, desperately searching for the proper word, before settling half-heartedly on the best fitting one "—_weird_ lately, especially around _mi __Lovinito_."

Another amber-liquid-filled glass was placed in front of the Spaniard, and he muttered his thanks in Spanish.

Had he been looking in the direction of his long-time best friends and not at the man delivering the sought-after drink, Antonio would have seen the knowing look Francis and Gilbert exchanged, but, alas, he did not.

After a pause within which Antonio took a deep gulp of his new drink, he continued, "I get this weird stomach thing, and I feel all happy, and I want to do all these things to him that are just plain strange and . . ." Spain trailed off, glancing desperately at each of his fellow nations for some kind of advice on the matter.

Francis looked thoughtful for a moment, as if pondering how to respond. Finally, he began cautiously, "I do not know exactly how to phrase this—"

"You love the brat," Gilbert interrupted, ignoring the indignant glare the Parisian sent his way.

Antonio simply smiled. "But I already knew that."

The two other nations stopped their glare-fest-turned-tousling to stare at their Spanish friend in shock.

"_Quoi?_"

"_Was?_"

"I've (almost) always loved Lovino~! I practically raised him~!" The Spaniard exclaimed happily, almost as if looking down on the two men.

Francis rolled his eyes at his oblivious friend, fixing his chic clothes and taking a seat on the leather barstool after finally releasing Gil—read: letting him fall to the floor.

France patted Spain on the back lightly—albeit a bit lower than would be accepted normally, but Spain didn't notice that—and said gently, "I think you may be slightly confused, _mon ami_."

Gilbert scoffed, brushing himself off and taking his own seat back. "More like slightly airheaded."

Francis continued, shooting another glare Prussia's way, "We mean the kind of _amour_ you give your lover."

"You mean like you give to every person you fuck?" Gilbert questioned.

"Is it so wrong to show _amour_ to the world?" Francis countered.

As the two bickered, Antonio tried to absorb the information given to him, eyes wide. It was a daunting thought, that he did not simply love Romano as a brother, or friend, or, hell, a father, but was actually _in love_ with the beautiful Italian. Though, the more he thought about it, the more it made sense that he did indeed love the southern half of Italy, and, the more he found he was, in actuality, very happy about the possibility.

Just the thought of being able to display as much affection as he wanted towards Lovino was enough to make him excited about his new-found realization; he could kiss him, hold him, cuddle with him, call him cute pet names, and make sweet, sweet, love to him. (Half of which he already did, he noted).

A blush coated his cheeks and a twinge of excitement lit his stomach at the last part.

At some point during Antonio's pondering, Gilbert had managed to pin Francis to the ground and proceeded to sit on the man, smirking while Francis let out a number of very rude-sounding exclamations in a strange mixture of French and a variety of other languages.

Grinning at the goofy expression on Antonio's face, Gilbert shouted, "Another round of drinks to celebrate!"

And that was pretty much the last thing Antonio remembered before getting shit-drunk.

o.0.O.0.o

_Bam!_

Lovino snapped awake suddenly, eyes shooting open at the sound of the door slamming open.

_Antonio must be home_, he thought, shifting back down into the mattress and letting his eyes fall shut once again.

_Crash!_

A vein twitched on Romano's forehead, but he didn't get up from bed. _That idiot can get himself to bed just fine_, he thought.

_Bang! Smash!_

Romano finally gave up, shoving the fluffy duvet off his body, flinching as the cool night air touched his bare skin—he was only wearing his boxers—and stomped out his bedroom door and down the tiled stairs.

"You had better not be drunk, you damn bastard, or, I swear, I'll—"

The sight that greeted him at the bottom of the stairs cut his voice off immediately. Hazel eyes widened in shock at the view of what had once been his—_Spain's_—living room.

Only one lamp was still on to illuminate the room, but it was enough that Romano was scared of what he would see if the rest were lit. Nearly everything in the room was misplaced; whether it was a once straight painting or a potted plant, or—oh, _Dio_—the damn television, it was now different than how it had been before. Pillows were strewn everywhere, the curtains were covering the windows haphazardly, and the area rug was wrinkled and crooked.

And, in the middle of it all, was nothing more or less than a very, _very_ drunk Spaniard.

One who had just caught sight of Lovino.

_Oh shit—_

Antonio's eyes lit up, and he skipped across the room, right up to Lovino, his face less than a few centimeters from the Italian's. Said Italian blushed at the close contact, eyes widened in surprise.

"I love you Lovi~!" Antonio sing-songed suddenly, breezy—and quite alcohol-filled—breath caressing Lovino's face.

Lovino's mouth dropped open and a blush so hot he was afraid his face would catch on fire covered his cheeks. His heart beat a million times a minute, so fast he was afraid it would break free from his chest and fly across the room itself.

Antonio leaned back, giving Lovino some _much _needed space, and pouted childishly.

"Does Lovi not love me back~?" he whimperd, voice filled with such a deep, childish sadness that Lovino almost believed him to be sober.

"I-I . . ." Lovino stuttered, eyes shifting to the ground. He wasn't sure what he was going to say. Did he love the guy? Lovino could now (fairly) comfortably admit to himself that yes, he was in love with the idiot, but was he really ready to say it to the object of his affections?

The Italian turned back to his roommate—whether or not he was going to answer still undecided—to find the man passed out on the couch, stupid smile still on his face.

Romano smiled despite himself, and tried to keep himself from feeling relieved. He didn't have to answer tonight, but when would the time come that he did?

He sighed, pushing the foreboding thought to the back of his mind for the moment. There were more pressing matters at hand. How he was going to get Antonio back to his room was only one example.

Another sigh escaped from the southern Italian's lips, as he moved over to the Spaniard now snoring on the couch with trudging steps. Lovino paused by the man's side and lowered a hand to caress his face lightly. Another smile pulled at his mouth as he stared.

He was . . . _cute_.

Lovino smacked himself mentally. What the hell would make him think that? That bastard could _never_ be considered cute. Ever.

_Is this what love does?_ he wondered, slightly scared at the prospect.

Romano was broken out of his thoughts, however, when the daunting task of actually managing to _move_ the Spanish native came to play.

Lovino studied the image of the Spaniard lying on the couch, drooling slightly, and grinning like a perverted idiot eyeing a hot girl's ass—or a guy's, you never know—and tried to brainstorm ways to get the man up the stairs.

Carrying him was out of the question. Lovino wasn't that much shorter than Spain, but he did lack the amount of _completely unappealing_ muscle mass that Antonio had, his figure supporting a more lean kind of frame.

Dragging him was also not an option. No matter how much Lovino would love to see the man hitting his head/nose/everything on the wall/stairs/everything, he didn't want to have to explain the various cuts and bruises that would no doubt appear the next day.

Unfortunately—ha, yeah right—he was not England so he couldn't use magic or any kind of shit like that to get the idiot to his bed. Not that he'd want to.

Romano would just have to leave him there. He shrugged. There were worse fates than being left to sleep on a not-too-uncomfortable couch.

Lovino turned away to grab the blanket lying on the adjacent chair—n-not that he wanted to cover the idiot—but a yank to his hand halted his actions. He was pulled down harshly, losing his balance and falling onto the couch. Now, this wouldn't be much of a problem if it weren't for the fact that someone else already occupied that space. And if that person weren't a stupid Spanish bastard.

Lovino fell face first onto the other man's chest, his body half on the Spaniard. His face lit up a bright red, rivaling a lighthouse guiding ships safely home in the dark of the night.

As if things weren't bad enough, suddenly Antonio's arms tightened around the smaller nation, pulling him closer and causing Romano's entire body to fall onto Spain.

Romano froze, panic filling him in the form of embarrassment at the thought of their position. To any outsider it would appear as if the two men were _cuddling_. His heart sped up at the thought, until he was sure that if Antonio were awake he would be able to feel its pounding rhythm.

As the shock filtered out of Lovino's body, he tried struggling, to no avail. eEvery time he would try to pull away from the Spaniard, he would simply be pulled closer and tighter into Antonio's chest.

After a few minutes of pointless struggling, Lovino gave up, settling for glaring into the admittedly warm chest and worming himself into a slightly more comfortable position.

If he couldn't get up, then he may as well be comfortable, Lovino told himself as he tried to keep his eyelids from drooping. Lovino would _not_ let himself fall asleep on the bastard. Not that he had to worry. The idiot was very uncomfortable. Not warm at all. Nope.

Lovino nuzzled his face into Spain's chest unconsciously. _Maybe it wouldn't be the _worst_ place to sleep_, he thought as his consciousness slipped slowly from him.

And so, Lovino slipped into sleep, a small smile curved against the chest of the one he loved.

o.0.O.0.o

**And there ya go~! Cheesy ending is cheesy~! Oh, and warning, from here on out I have nothing planned. All I know is that there will be a time skip next chapter, so BE PREPARED. **

**Read and review~? *puppy-dog face***

**Chibianimefreak out~**


	6. Unexpected Clean Ups

**Yay for chapters that weren't planned but ended up being kind of pivotal~! I think (hope) you'll enjoy this chapter~! Ah, but I was watching Mall Cop while writing, so I was slightly distracted. Therefore, this is very prone to being edited tomorrow, especially if we end up having a delay or snow day. I doubt that, though. **

**Disclaimer: I write this every chapter, I'm pretty sure that by now you should get the idea that Hetalia no es mio. Sorry.**

There are some points of the day where, no matter how much you try to resist the urge, you just want nothing more than to sink your teeth into a rich, delicious tomato. This was one of those moments for Lovino Vargas.

Romano had his, as Antonio would say, cute butt parked on the counter in the kitchen, munching on said tomato and enjoying the feeling of the juices running down his throat and coating his mouth with their deliciousness.

Unfortunately, when all you're doing is enjoying a tomato and sitting on a counter, you tend to get more than a little bored. Not that eating a tomato isn't a good thing, no, it was one of the best things Romano could be doing at the moment, but it wasn't exactly mind consuming. Or, at least, not for Lovino. Maybe Spain would consider it so, but the Italian was just a tad less easily entertained.

Because of this, Lovino's mind began to wander.

It had been a week since Romano had realized his feelings for his former boss and woken up _on_ said former boss, and he could easily say that absolutely nothing had changed between the two of them since then.

After the rather awkward morning—the likes of which had consisted of Lovino getting embarrassed and hitting Antonio as hard as he could in the Spanish family jewels and a very confused Spaniard—the two had gone back to as normal as two nations living together could be.

Or, at least, that's what Romano would have liked.

In reality, Spain had been acting more than slightly odd since that night, and Lovino was beginning to believe the idiotic Iberian had finally managed to break the last few lonely brain cells within his noggin. If he'd even had anything within it to begin with—a fact that Lovino was finding harder and harder to believe.

Romano had caught his roommate simply staring at him on more than one occasion. It wouldn't have been anything too out of the ordinary had it been his usual staring, but the nation had taken to not only staring, but _goggling_ Lovino, mouth agape, drool leaking from the open hole, and emerald eyes glazed over with something the receiver of the stare couldn't identify. It was almost as if the man were seeing Romano for the first time, or as someone new.

Not only that, but the idiot had been even more affectionate than usual, which is saying something. For example, Lovino walked into the kitchen the other day while Antonio was busy making dinner, and, for some unfathomable reason, the Spaniard had immediately ceased all actions and enveloped the grumpy Italian in a crushing hug, murmuring quietly in _Basque_ of all languages. Really, Basque, one of the many languages spoken within the nation of Spain, as well as one of the few languages within said country that Lovino did not know a word of.

Yes, Romano would admit, he did know Spanish, and fairly well, too. But really, it's nearly impossible to live in a nation for centuries and not pick up the main language spoken there, along with a few of the other dialects.

But Lovino digressed.

Needless to say, after that episode Antonio had been readily pushed away, and, no, Romano did not enjoy the warmth of his arms at all, current love interest or not.

Though he might have overreacted just a little. Maybe running off to his room and locking himself in there for the remainder of the night wasn't the most normal reaction, but it was what Lovino automatically did after being embraced so suddenly.

Fine, maybe Spain hadn't been the only one acting odd since that day about a week ago when Romano had finally realized that he was fucking _in love_ with Antonio. It was only natural, though! He hadn't had time to adjust to the new feelings—or, well, the newly realized feelings—and was adapting slowly.

Lovino may have been avoiding the older country a bit more than usual, if only because it was weird now knowing—or at least acknowledging—that he actually loved Spain. He was finding it hard to look the man in the face every day and pretend everything was completely normal between them because, now, inevitably, it wasn't, and, for Romano, it probably never would be again.

And so Lovino dealt with it like almost every other personal problem that had occurred throughout his lifetime: he ignored it.

Somewhere within the depths of his mind, the Italian knew it wasn't one of those simple "ignore it and it'll go away" things, but in the more conscious area of his psyche, it was a strategy that had worked for centuries, and he was sticking to it. Even deeper was the part that knew that last bit wasn't at all true, but if he wasn't ready to admit to the first "hidden" problem, then this wasn't coming out any time soon, either.

Don't get him wrong, Lovino knew what he felt wasn't simply a third grade crush; a mindless affection that would simply fade as soon as the new "oh, he's cute" came along. Not that Antonio was cute. At all. In any definition of the word. Unless, for some reason, there was a thesaurus that labeled "cute" as synonymous to "ugly" or "annoying".

All denials—truths, they're truths, not denials—aside, Romano therefore knew that he wasn't going to glance up one day, see some random person walking down the street and immediately start to feel the way he did for Spain. He knew there was no easy way out of this, and that one day the time would come when those feelings would come out.

Whether they'd be reciprocated was a whole other story.

Most would see how the two nations act around each other and automatically assume that yes, Antonio _definitely_ loves his "_Lovinito_" or "_tomate_" or any of the other sickening nicknames Antonio had a tendency to call his long-time Italian friend, but Lovino wasn't so sure. Antonio had almost always done that; he'd been doting on his former charge forever, showering him with affection and such.

That wouldn't have been the biggest indicator the answer would be negative, but Antonio seemed to do that to everyone. He was never one to limit his affections or friendliness to his friends, strangers, or even—though it was a fair share less—to his enemies. Lovino had caught Spain and England wandering home drunk more than once, arms draped over one another and singing old pirate songs.

It was enough to cause Lovino to have doubt in Antonio's possible feelings.

A sudden wetness snapped Romano out of his slowly down-spiraling thoughts. He jumped slightly, and peered down at himself, holding what was left of the tomato off to the side.

"Shit," he swore upon catching sight of the translucent-red juice, which had dripped onto his grey T-shirt and splattered all over it.

Hopping off the counter—after shoving the remaining bit of tomato into his mouth—Lovino reached for the closest thing to him that could possibly help: a checkered dishtowel.

Romano pulled the shirt down taut and rubbed the spot with the towel frantically. After a moment of hurried cleaning, he pulled the rag away to assess the problem, and swore again harshly.

He was so distracted by the little stain he failed to notice the surprised Spaniard walking through the archway leading to the spacious kitchen.

"Ah, Lovi, let me help~," Antonio said as he rushed over to the Italian.

"I can do it myself, damn it," Lovino snapped, pulling his arm away from where Spain had reached for it, trying to halt the Italian's hasty motions and grab the red and white cloth for himself.

The Spaniard raised an eyebrow, and pointed at the wet mark, which had now grown by quite a few inches in nearly every direction.

Spain chuckled when Lovino scowled at the sight, and gently eased the towel out of his roommate's now slack grip. He reached under the grey shirt, placing his hand directly under the stain, so close to Romano's chest the Italian could feel the ghost of the tan skin on his bare pecs.

Antonio reached to wet the towel, placing it under the running tap after manipulating the faucet somehow and managing to get water to run from the silver contraption, before pressing the damp cloth to Lovino's shirt and rubbing it slowly in circles.

Lovino shivered slightly as the coldness met his skin, though he wasn't sure it was entirely from the water. He glanced up at Antonio's face, looking through his lashes, as the Spaniard concentrated on the motion of his hand.

Heavy lids blocked most of the green of Spain's eyes out, due to the fact his gaze was directed downwards at Lovino's chest, but the Italian could still catch the intensity of the light that shone from them. Lovino's own brownish eyes traveled lower, following the bridge of the straight nose straight down to the lips. Romano felt his cheeks heat even more than they already were when he caught sight of the small bit of tongue poking out from between the thin lips as the brow above them narrowed in concentration.

"There we go!" Antonio chimed, finally pulling back slightly, and removing his hand from beneath Lovino's shirt, dragging it lightly over the taut stomach as it exited.

Lovino's eyes broke from Antonio's face hurriedly, glancing down at his own chest to see the stain now turned into a—fairly large—wet spot, now obviously just water.

"Thanks," Romano mumbled quietly, still not meeting the Spaniard's gaze, "I guess."

"_De nada_~!" Antonio sang.

Lovino dared to finally glance upwards at Spain's face, not expecting what he ended up seeing. His ever-changing eyes widened as they took in the expression on the older man's face. The last of what must have been a cheerful smile faded from Spain's features, his eyelids drooping slightly, eyes darkening beneath the heavy lashes.

Antonio took a step closer, closing the distance he had needed before to see what he was doing, and nearly pressing them chest to chest.

"A-antonio . . ." Lovino trailed off as the person he addressed grabbed under his chin and tilted his head upwards. His blush darkened and his heart quickened as the face belonging to his newly realized love approached.

Romano's mind flashed back to just under a week ago when an event not unlike this one occurred. Only, the first time he hadn't—

O-oh . . .

That . . .

Romano felt warm lips press against his own, and arms snuck around his waist, owner of the arms pressing a toned body nearly flush against Lovino's own. The shock slowly faded out of his system, only to be replaced by an entirely new feeling. Lovino could only concentrate on the small things as his eyes fluttered closed: heart beating, blood rushing and burning through his veins, face flushing, stomach fluttering with unknown feelings, and, above all, his lips, a warm pressure placed on them, and causing all of these reactions as a result of the simple contact.

Or was it the person the lips belonged to doing all that?

Lovino snuck his arms around Antonio's neck, tilting his own head for better access, and allowing him to press the last inches of their bodies not yet touching together.

He would probably never admit it out loud, but Lovino very much enjoyed this intimacy. He hadn't known how contact-starved he'd been, but now that he had a passionate Antonio pressed against him, he never wanted it to end.

And then suddenly, just as quickly as it had started, it was over.

Antonio pulled back, jumping away and releasing Lovino as if burned. His green eyes were wide with shock, though whether it was due to his own actions or the fact that Lovino had actually responded—and positively for once, which, Lovino almost regretted to admit, was an unusual thing in itself—to aforementioned actions.

"Antonio . . . I . . ." Lovino was at a loss for words. He could think of three possible ones to say, but for some reason they didn't come as easily as he would have liked. No matter how many times he repeated them in his head, his mouth wouldn't form them.

It was just a simple widening and narrowing of a mouth, tongue touching upper teeth, teeth onto the lower lip and a forming of the lips. That's all it would take for his mouth to say the three simple words and yet . . . it wouldn't happen.

Spain rubbed the back of his head, backing away from Romano and smiling awkwardly, the expression not reaching his eyes at all.

"Ahahaha, _l-lo siento_, Lovi . . . I'll just . . . France . . . bye . . ." jumbled, heavily accented English ran from Spain's mouth brokenly as he half-ran, half-tripped out the archway.

Lovino stared at the now empty space in shock.

What the hell just happened?

**And scene~! Yes, crappy ending is crappy. **

**Ah, and I think the next chapter will finally (maybe) have part of the party, which is, since you don't know, the kind of pinnacle/finale of the entire thing. Or, well, right after the party, at least. **

**Yes, I am capable of planning something. Maybe. **

**Chibianimefreak out~**


	7. Of Meetings and Bedtimes

**Chapter 7 has arrived~! (And early too!) Oh, God, I thought I'd be done by now, but no, still at least two more chapters . . . Or, well, it **_**should**_** be two chapters but, knowing me, it'll end up being like three or four, hopefully no more than that . . . Whatever. **

**This ended up being longer than the rest, 3000 words versus the usual 2000. And I have one paragraph in there that's all one sentence. It's an 89-word sentence. What the hell? If you find it I'll give you something~! An undecided something, mind you. **

**Disclaimer: ****No creo que Hetalia sea mío, ¡pero espero que esta historia es tan buena que el manga! (Sí, sí, no es posible, ya sé . . .)**

Antonio raised his fist and knocked frantically on the dark wood door leading to France's Parisian house. The charming flat was above a small coffee shop, so the place always smelled of freshly ground beans and a general warmness seemed to constantly fill home. It was made of grey stone like most of the rest of the buildings within the old city of Paris, but had a bit of a rosy tint to it, as though it had once been pink, but the color had faded with time. Along each of the windows were both carved stonework of varying designs, and flowers arranged aesthetically in colored window boxes.

Spain bounced slightly as he waited for the Parisian to exit the house-apartment-thing. He was in desperate need for advice, or to at least vent, and France was both the closest and best option Spain had, especially considering the topic.

The entire three-hour train ride over—he really did _not_ want to drive for thirteen hours, thank you very much—Antonio had been restlessly pacing his cabin, antsy and anxious, worried about what Lovino thought, about how he reacted and why Antonio himself ran away. He really did not know why he decided kissing Lovino was a good idea. All he knew for sure was how inviting Lovino looked at the time: cheeks flushed, eyes widened and shining, lips parted slightly in surprise and so _right there_ he just had to touch them.

Spain snapped his head quickly from side to side, attempting to rid it of the whirlwind of thoughts flying through it at 200 kilometers per hour with the speedometer still rising, just as Francis opened the door to reveal his long time Spanish friend.

Antonio was sure he looked nothing short of a mad man standing there, bouncing and pacing slightly, eyes wild and panicked, hair tousled and at around ten at night, no less, so Francis' shocked look and general outward appearance—wearing a robe and with curlers in his hair—did not come as a surprise.

"Antonio," the blonde said, "what are you doing here?" His violet-blue eyes scanned Antonio up and down, taking in his frenzied appearance and pressing his lips in a thin line. "Never mind, come in, you look simply horrible." Francis stood back from the door, gesturing with his arm for Antonio to enter the apartment.

Spain stepped into the warm front hall gratefully, removing his coat as France closed the heavy door behind him. His emerald eyes took in the familiar surroundings as he felt warmth return to his body.

Usually there would be multiple flats above the store, but long ago Francis had remodeled it to construct one larger almost house-like apartment. Much like Francis himself, the home was posh, decorated with a fair number of fairly pricey pieces, a fact even Antonio could see, and he'd never really dwelled in the area of fashion or interior design. For all its fanciness, however, it was simple, as most of France is. Small decorations were displayed all over, nothing too bold or outspoken, yet all of them blending together to form something of the utmost elegance.

Francis turned to address his friend, looking almost at a loss as to what he should be doing. He truly had not expected Antonio to show up in the least, especially not just a few days after they had come to what should have been a happy conclusion, and was therefore extremely unprepared to deal with any necessary pep talk. Normally Spain would call, and, he realized, he had forgotten to do so in the rush to make it to the safety of the Frenchman's main home. He felt bad for forcing this upon France, even more so when he was offered a glass of wine. Antonio agreed, even as the guilt weighed in his stomach.

As Francis drifted off to the kitchen to pour a couple of glasses of tangy French wine, Antonio collapsed on the low-lying, white couch with a sigh. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his legs, and buried his head in his hands.

What was he doing? Back there, in the kitchen, what had he done? He'd probably ruined any and all chances of ever being with Lovino in any other way than literally. There was no way the Italian would ever want to see Antonio again, let alone want to date the older nation.

The worst part was that Antonio wasn't usually the one who ended up panicking. Normally he'd remain calm while _Lovino_ panicked. Plus, he'd kissed before—hell, he'd made out random strangers in the past—so why did something as simple as a kiss to Lovino make him run for France?

It was all so confusing; he just wanted to go back in time and reverse it all so they were back to normal. He hated it, and hated that he couldn't do exactly that.

There was only one hope Antonio could hold onto, like a light shining in the fog. Lovino had responded, he had; it wasn't just a fluke. Not only that, but it wasn't even a bad response, like punching or kicking or head butting, as Lovino was prone to do, but rather the Italian had kissed him back. He had _actually_ kissed Antonio back.

It was . . . mindboggling.

There were a million questions that came to mind when he thought of that little fact, but the biggest of them had to be _why?_

At that moment Francis walked in carrying two glasses and a bottle of rich red wine, hair now devoid of curlers. Sitting himself down on the couch opposite Spain, he placed both glasses down and poured a generous amount of the deep maroon liquid into each.

France leaned back languidly, taking a small sip of his drink before staring at his neighbor with slightly narrowed eyes, scrutinizing him.

Antonio sipped his own wine, his gaze alternating between the dark red drink and Francis' slightly intimidating eyes.

Finally, sighing, Francis broke the fairly uncomfortable silence, "Okay, what went wrong between you and your little Italian?"

Antonio's eyes widened and he sat up slightly. "How did you—"

"What else could it possibly be?" Francis interrupted, raising an eyebrow. "You are reacting dramatically as you only do when it comes to Romano, and it is late, so you could not have been seeing anyone else," he began his explanation, ticking off on his fingers as he went, "not to mention you just recently realized the feelings you hold for _ton_ _italien petit_, so it is very possible you messed up in some way and came to _moi_ for help."

Antonio opened and closed his mouth in shock. He wasn't sure if he wanted to praise Francis for being so perceptive, or rip his throat out for insulting him, but settled instead for simply taking another sip of his wine to get his mind working again.

It seemed to work, for when he swallowed the alcoholic drink, he finally vocalized, "A-ah, well yes, it is concerning Romano, but it was my fault."

France rolled his blue eyes, uncrossing and crossing his legs, and gestured for Spain to continue.

"I . . . uh, well, I . . ." Spain gulped, "I kissed him. Accidentally."

Francis gave a single, harsh laugh; surprised, Antonio jumped slightly, the dark red drink sloshing in the clear glass. "That is not a problem, _mon ami_," he said, an amused look on his face.

"But it was accidental! I didn't want to kiss him—at least not at the moment!" Antonio defended.

The Frenchman waved his Spanish neighbor off. "There is no such thing as an accidental kiss. An _unplanned_ kiss may happen if both sides are experiencing what I like to call 'the moment'."

Antonio looked at his friend quizzically. "'The moment'?" he questioned.

With his wine glass securely placed on the table, Francis stood dramatically, gesturing wildly with his hands as he exclaimed, "It is when two people feel such unbridled sexual tension and/or love that you cannot help but embrace in the most personal of ways—besides making love, of course."

He sighed, taking his seat again. "You two are perfect for each other!" he exclaimed. "Alas," he placed a hand over his forehead theatrically, "I wish I'd had a chance to get a piece of the feisty Romano myself before you took him, _mais_ _amour_ _est amour_, and that I cannot stand to get in the way of it."

Antonio's eyes hardened slightly as he felt the usual protectiveness engulf him. "Francis," he admonished warningly.

"_Oui, oui_, he is yours, I know, I know," France appeased Spain. "But, truly, I do not see the problem with this situation."

Spain sighed, placing his own glass on the table next to France's and leaning back so his head dropped over the back of the couch. He stared up at the ceiling in dismay, eyeing the white surface, the likes of which was rather plain compared to the rest of the flat.

"I guess the real problem would be that I ran away," Spain finally said, raising his head to look at his French friend. "And whether or not Lovi loves me like I love him."

Francis crossed his arms and leaned back onto the couch, staring at his Spanish friend. "The second one is quite an easy fix; it is obvious Romano holds feelings for you, _mon cher_. The only thing I would worry about is figuring out how to get him to show those feelings." He raised an eyebrow. "The first one is more of an issue. I do not know exactly how your beautiful Italian will react, but it will not be good."

Antonio looked down in dismay. He knew he was in trouble. Francis may not know the exact issue, but Antonio knew Lovino better. In hindsight, he realized that running from his home was most likely the worst idea he could have had. Lovino probably thought he had regretted kissing him and ran away because of it. He knew Lovino had abandonment issues and many other problems on top of that—he didn't want to list them off at the moment, and also kept in mind he had his own problems—and Antonio running away probably hadn't helped much.

Spain groaned, running his hands through his hair. Damn it. He stood up quickly, knocking the table with his knees, shaking the two glasses and sending the dark red liquid sloshing. "I have to go," he said, more to himself than Francis, "I have to go make sure Lovi's okay."

France simply nodded, smiling knowingly, as Spain rushed out of the apartment, nearly sprinting to the train station in his haste to get back to his house where, hopefully, an only slightly depressed Italian was waiting impatiently for him to get back.

XXX

Spain finally slammed the door of his red car shut long past one o'clock. Another three-hour train ride home had occurred, this time consisting of him first pacing across the otherwise empty cabin, then managing to sleep unsettlingly for about the last hour or so.

The nap hadn't helped, though, and had only served to make Antonio feel even more exhausted and worried than before. The entire ride home from the train station Antonio had been chanting in his head like a mantra: _Lovi is home, he has not left. Lovi is home, he has not left . . ._ Over and over repeated them until he was sure to believe them in the very depths of his being. If it wasn't true, Spain wasn't sure what he'd do.

The gravel crunched under his shoes, sounding even louder and more ominous in the night than during the time when the bright Spanish sun shone down over the house and tomato fields surrounding it. He stared at the large door as he approached. Although he knew it was a deep brown, in the darkness it could have been any color of the rainbow, it could have even been stained with blood, a foreboding thought that sent shivers down the Spaniard's back. He counted down the steps until he reached the door.

_Five more . . . four . . . three . . . two . . ._

And then Spain was there, standing on the top of the three stone steps, his door directly in front of him, the only thing keeping him from the fate that would wait him inside, whether good or bad.

Taking a deep breath, Antonio grabbed the doorknob and turned his hand harshly, expecting it to spin under the pressure of his hand, but the metal contraption simply rattled half-heartedly. Furrowing his brows in confusion, Antonio stared at the object in his hands as the dread began to gather in his stomach.

The rattled nation tried again, watching as the knob held steadfast. Finally relenting, Spain walked over to where the spare key was hidden and revealed the slightly dingy metal piece. Sheathing it within the keyhole, he turned, opening the door in the same movement and stepping into the mysteriously dark house.

Peering around into the near blackness, Antonio closed the door behind him quietly, praying that Lovi was simply sleeping and had locked the door as an extra precaution.

"Lovi . . . ?" Spain whisper-shouted as he stepped through the kitchen, heading for the living room. As he neared the archway, he saw a faint glow coming from the room, illuminating the darkness in a soft blue light. It was much too late for Lovi to be up—it was well past one, whereas the Italian didn't like to be up much past eleven—so the sight frightened him slightly.

He approached cautiously, tip-toeing through the arch, expecting the worst. What if Lovino was mad? Or worse: what if he was gone?

The thought sent shots of panic through his body, escalating the level of anxiety filling his being even higher than previously. Spain couldn't bare the idea of living without Romano again. He had missed him for the 200 years or so the Italian had lived in Italy, and had been happy beyond belief when Lovino decided to come back to Spain.

Antonio remembered how empty the house had felt when Romano left, one of the last of his underlings and the most important of them. He didn't want that to happen again; another Spanish Succession was not needed.

Antonio shook his head free of the less than happy thoughts and walked through the archway and into the spacious room. "Lovi . . . ?" he called again, this time hearing a slight moan and the sound of cloth shifting against cloth in response.

Relief filled him as he walked over to the couch, his suspicious confirmed upon finding a sleeping Lovino illuminated by the television and lying draped over the couch, duvet draped over him in turn. Spain had never been so happy to see Romano, and he was almost always glad to see the Italian—though there were a couple times he could have done without the younger nation's presence.

Antonio smiled as he brushed a hand over the serene nation's face and through his hair, tanned hand brushing over that one curl. Lovino twitched slightly in his sleep as it was touched, frowning slightly in a familiar way before calming once more as Antonio retracted his hand.

Spain relished the calm moment for a little while longer before deflating upon realizing what his next task was to be: bringing Romano back to his room. He could have potentially left the Italian there, but he would never hear the end of it in the morning. No, it was definitely smarter to bring the Italian up to his bed before he woke up and discovered himself on the couch.

Sighing, Antonio switched the television off and turned to pick Lovino up, settling for the bridal style as being the most effective at the moment. After making sure Lovino was securely in his arms, Antonio began the slow ascent to the second floor, taking it one step at a time.

He watched Lovino's uncharacteristically peaceful face as his own eyes began drooping and even more exhaustion filled him at the prospect of carrying Lovino all the way across the entire second floor to the Italian's room and then walking all the way back to his own. It was in that moment he decided to let the consequences come to him in the morning, Spain was going to put Lovino in his own room for the night. Antonio was tired and wasn't sure if he'd be able to carry the sizeable Italian—not to say he was fat, no, far from it, just taller than would be comfortable to hold for too long—all the way to his distant bedroom.

With that sentiment in mind, Spain walked to his door, kicking it open fully—he ignored the light switch, _Dios_ forbid he woke Romano up—and managed to get over to his king size bed, placing the Italian on the plush mattress before getting ready for bed himself, the likes of which really only consisted of taking off the excess clothes, doing the same to Romano—with much care—and tucking the two of them into the heavy comforters at the moment, if only due to the lateness of the hour.

As Spain relaxed into the bed, he turned to face his roommate, snuggling closer to him for warmth, if nothing else. He truly did love the Italian, of that he was sure now. He had also shared his first kiss with that same Italian earlier today—though, in reality that would have been yesterday, when he thought about it—and experienced "the moment", as Francis had so eloquently put it, something Spain was still more than skeptical about.

It fit, though, the idea of the moment. Why else would he have kissed Lovino at that time? Antonio couldn't think of another explanation, besides believing himself insane or some equally unlikely sentiment.

If that was truly it, then . . . did Lovino actually love him back?

**And there ya go~! Sorry for the random Spanish disclaimer . . . Um, if it was wrong, please tell me. I'm a willing student. :D**

**Read a review please, I love all your comments and critiques~!**

**Chibianimefreak out~!**


	8. A Trip to Remember

**Four words: This. Chapter. Is. Long. Literally, it's over twice as long as most of my chapters (besides the first one and the seventh, which were 1500 and 3000 words respectively) at 4416 words. What. The. Hell.**

**But anyways: two people found the long sentence in the last chapter~! Yay~! I know one was my friend Michi (or Kage if I didn't want to annoy her, but I do) and the other was Glowstick145. I congratulate you both on reading my author's note to begin with (quite a task) and on finding it! So, as a prize I decided to give you both a one-shot. It can't be something longer than around 7000 words, though. I don't really have time at the moment to write something that extensive. But congrats!**

**Disclaimer: (I realized in the last chapter that I used que instead of como but no one noticed so yay~!) Not mine. Never will be. Blah, blah, blah—DON'T RUB IT IN!**

Lovino often tried to put off waking up for as long as possible. It was a normal thing for him to do; he was never much of a morning person as it was, and, of course, the most comfortable position you're in all day is the one you wake up in. Eventually, when the urge for his mind to bring itself into consciousness was too strong to resist, he simply refused to open his eyes and let himself be blinded by the harsh sunlight no doubt filtering in through the ever-present gap in his curtains. He was too stubborn to do otherwise, and was adamant about not getting up until he absolutely had to.

That is why, as Romano slowly awakened that morning, he decided to snuggle back into the comforter and let his mind wander before taking on the day ahead.

Regrettably, he found himself thinking of the previous one.

What had happened? His mind still couldn't quite process the event, still couldn't fathom _why_ it had occurred. There didn't seem to be any rational reason for what Spain had done, for why he had _kissed_ Romano.

It obviously wasn't friendly in the least either, but rather as passionate as one could get without deepening the kiss in any way.

Plus, there was the fact that Lovino had actually . . . _returned_ the gesture. He didn't know why he did it; it just somehow felt natural to feel the Spaniard's lips against his own, and he couldn't help but reciprocate.

Within his thoughts—no matter how messed up they were—Lovino did somehow manage to realize the absence of any regret in the action. He was happy to have finally kissed Antonio, however much of a blush that thought brought to his face. He had truly enjoyed the feeling of the elder's lips against his own and the closeness of the encounter. However mixed up they were, the sensations were not unpleasant ones, and they made him feel alive, happy, and, above all, _loved_, something that was a rarity for him. Something he was pretty sure he could get used to.

And then there was the big question: did that mean Antonio felt the same way? He _had_ kissed the younger Italian, and in a way that would usually be taken as a gesture exchanged between lovers, most certainly not friends or brothers or roommates or whatever the hell they were now.

But, his mind realized, Spain had run for France as soon as he released Romano. Did he regret kissing him? Romano wouldn't blame him; he was just Spain's "little tomato" or whatever the hell the idiot decided to call him on that particular day. The bastard was probably disgusted with himself for kissing his "_Lovinito_".

Lovino sighed, rolling over and pulling the duvet higher up his body, curling into a ball as he did so. He relaxed into the slightly-more-comfortable-than-he-thought-his-bed-normally-was-but-he-wasn't-complaining bed contentedly, wishing he would drift back to sleep.

Sadly, within moments the previous relaxed state Lovino had achieved was destroyed as a sudden shift in weight beside him—and the feeling of a warm body pressing against him and _holding_ him, can't forget those little details—startled the skittish Italian. His hazel eyes shot open and he stiffened, body going as rigid as Germany when . . . well, at any time, really.

As his eyes managed to focus—after having to squeeze shut due to the alien light shining into them—he noticed exactly what they were focusing _on_, which is to say a tanned—and very _bare_—chest. One that wasn't all too unfamiliar.

_W-wait . . . that isn't . . . couldn't be . . ._

Romano's eyes slowly traveled upwards, taking in the way too well-known tan arms, chest, and neck, finally reaching the face he was dreading to see.

The bright green eyes were still closed, _grazie a Dio_, but there was no doubt about it, he was staring directly into the face of Antonio, the bane and blessing of his existence for the past few centuries. And, upon surveying his surroundings with panicky eyes, he discovered he was not only lying next to his current love interest, but was lying _in the arms _of his current love interest _in the bed_ of said current love interest.

_Ch-che cosa?_

Romano blushed, his heart pounding in his chest. He had just woken up directly next to his crush—however childish it was to label the affections as such—for the second time this week. The first time, at least, _he_ was the one who knew what was going on, but, conversely, this time around he was the one who had absolutely _no clue_ what occurred last night.

And he did _not_ like the role reversal.

After making sure he had at least _some_ clothing on—he didn't even want to think of what it would apply had he not—Lovino attempted to squirm free of Antonio's tight hold, moving slowly so as not to wake his Spanish bedmate. He wiggled around, trying to loosen the vice-like grip, but no matter the amount of struggling he did, the Spaniard's arms refused to release the smaller male.

Romano stilled and huffed, pout—scowling, not pouting, adults do not pout, damn it—in frustration. _Stupid bastard, stupid strength, stupid warm arms . . ._ he complained to himself, unconsciously snuggling closer to the warm body even as he mentally bombarded the person it belonged to.

As the warmth from Antonio encompassed Lovino, his eyes drifted closed slowly, his mind making excuses as to why he was tolerating the Spaniard next to him. _The bastard is warm_, Lovino rationalized, _and it's cold out_. With his pride properly defended, he wiggled into a more comfortable position—one where the bastard _wasn't_ strangling him—and rested his head against the tanned chest contentedly.

Romano inhaled, feeling oddly calm, and relished in Spain's natural scent: grass, tomatoes, oregano, and so many other components he wasn't sure if he'd be able to name them all, and wasn't about to try.

Whatever you called it, the smell was relaxing, so much so that Lovino found himself falling back to sleep, surrounded by all that was Antonio, and, though he would never admit it, enjoying every second of it.

Just as he was about to drift off into dreamland again, yet_ another_ interruption occurred, this time a noise, more specifically a _voice_.

"Lovi~!" Spain moaned, eyes still closed, but obviously awake as he pulled Romano into a hug, or as much as he could given their position. "You're so comfy~! Like a teddy bear~!"

Golden eyes snapped open, and Lovino tensed, making a huge deal out of attempting to pull away again, though he knew it to be pointless. "I am not a fucking _teddy bear_, you bastard!" Lovino cursed, wiggling his hands up to beat on Antonio's chest, the movement restrained—and therefore less painful—due to their close proximity. "Get the fuck off me!"

"But Lovi~!" the older—though it didn't seem like it most of the time—nation whined, obviously, to Lovino's chagrin, not too affected by the bombardment of fists.

"No buts!" Lovino huffed, cheeks an unpleasant red color. "You're heavy. And you stink."

Emerald eyes finally cracked open, regarding the smaller man in the arms of the one the eyes belonged to. An uncharacteristic frown worked its way onto the face of the usually cheerful Spaniard. "That's not fair. I just woke up." The frown turned into a pout. "Besides, you're too snuggly to let go of~!" Spain demonstrated exactly that, tightening his hold as if to emphasize his words somehow.

Lovino scowled, his blush off-setting the scary expression. "M'not snuggly," he mumbled grumpily.

"You definitely are," Antonio objected, grinning and enveloping Lovino in both his arms, managing to somehow manipulate the slightly smaller nation on top of him and roll onto his back, pulling Lovino down so his face rested directly on his chest. "Why else would I love holding you so much~?"

Romano tensed, face darkening even more; he was sure if it got any warmer he would burn Spain's chest with the heat radiating off the blush. He struggled again, muttering darkly under his breath as he half-heartedly tried to break free of the hold.

Lovino finally went limp in Antonio's arms. He didn't make a move to return the gesture in anyway, but ceased his struggling and gave into his fate, doomed as he was to forever be trapped in a warm embrace. _There are worse ways to spend eternity_, he decided absentmindedly.

And anyway, it wasn't like Romano had a choice in the matter. If he did, then naturally he would have long ago broken free of Spain's grip and run for Italy and not looked back.

Of course, his mind told him something completely converse to that, but he ignored it.

Antonio must have taken his lack of adverse movement as a sign of consent, for he reached down awkwardly and pulled the comforter back over them from where it had slipped off during Lovino's struggling, and lowered them into a bit of a more comfortable position.

"Now, go back to sleep," Antonio said with a yawn, closing his own eyes. He rested one arm behind his head, the other draped over Lovino's body, hand resting in the Italian's dark bronze hair and petting it ever so slightly. "We could use a lazy day, don't you think?"

Romano hummed in agreement, letting his eyes close and allowing his mind to drift into unconsciousness, though not before catching the slightly pink tint to his Spanish pillow's face.

With the picture of a rosy-faced Antonio in his mind and the feeling that he had forgotten something nagging him, Lovino slept.

o.0.O.0.o

Romano awoke to the daunting sight of bright green eyes staring at him unblinkingly. He yelped, jumping back and nearly falling off the bed in the process, heart thumping wildly in his chest. He must have rolled off Spain at some point during the rather long nap, for he was now adjacent to him in the bed.

As his mind cleared itself of the fog that is sleep, he finally found the energy to glare at the cause of his sudden awakening. "What the fuck? Creepy bastard . . ." Romano huffed accusingly, trying and failing to will the blush from his face.

Spain smiled, sitting up beside him. "Ah, I couldn't help it, Lovi~! You're so cute when you sleep, all peaceful~!" He grinned. "You even smiled once. _Tan lindo_~!"

"I did not, bastard," Lovino hissed, sending a death glare at his laughing friend.

Once he had finally managed to stop chuckling, the Spaniard stretched with a groan, arms reaching to the ceiling and flexing the muscles in his chest enticingly. Lovino found himself staring at the taut expanse, and slapped his red face to break his gaze, earning an arched eyebrow from the now relaxed man adjacent to him.

Glancing away, Lovino questioned, "What time is it anyway, bastard?" He couldn't help but feel as if he was forgetting something he needed to do, something very important.

"Around five in the evening, I think," Antonio yawned. "How about I go make us some dinner and—"

Romano snapped his head to the idiot occupying the space beside him, suddenly remembering exactly what he—and Spain—needed to do. His eyes widened. "Five o'clock? Damn it, I told Feliciano we'd be in Rome by late tonight or early tomorrow morning to help set up for their damn party tomorrow night!" he shouted frantically.

Antonio shrugged. "So I'll make dinner and we'll pack up the car and—"

"You don't seem to understand," Lovino said in a low voice. "It's a fucking _eighteen hour drive_ to _Roma_ from here. We'd have to leave _now_ if we even want to get there before noon!"

Spain finally seemed to realize the severity of the situation and his face fell. "O-oh . . . that's not good."

"No, it's not fucking good!" Romano threw the covers off of him and flung himself out of bed. He stomped out the door as soon as his feet hit the tiled floor, pretending to ignore the fact that he was half-naked and that Spain was staring directly at him as he left.

He sprinted to his room, throwing on some clothes and stuffing more in a random duffel he found shoved under the bed. They were only staying for a couple days, but knowing Feliciano they'd be kept for at least a few more after that.

Zipping his bag shut with a flourish, he ran back to Antonio's room, annoyed to see that the idiot had just barely started pulling his jeans on. He blushed, muttering curses under his breath after he yelled at the bastard to finish up, and ran to the kitchen to grab something for both their suffering stomachs.

A half hour, a lot of yelling, and one redressing—Lovino swore, that idiot didn't even know how to button his shirt right—later, the two of them were in the car, Antonio in the driver's seat and Lovino riding shotgun, ready to head for the heart of Italy. Literally.

Romano reached into the glove compartment of the car, pulling out a wrinked map as Spain pulled out of his driveway and onto the country road.

Spain reached forward, turning on a random station with no real consideration and turning the volume down low. Usually Romano would object, but at the moment figuring out how they were going to find their way through France was the main thing on his mind, and much more pressing than the fact that we was to be forced to listen to a borage of random Spanish and otherwise mainstream songs.

Lovino eyed the piece of folded paper in his hands with narrowed eyes. How the hell was someone supposed to manage to unfold the damn thing? It was creased all over the place—making it certain that once it was unfolded it wouldn't get back to its original state too easily—and folded probably a hundred times over, all of them seeming to be in different directions and ways; some were triangles, some rectangles, some perfect squares. In some places it was even folded into a fan-type orientation.

Knitting his eyebrows in concentration, Lovino set to straightening the map of southwest Europe as carefully as possible, read: nearly ripping the thing to shreds in the process.

Antonio sent his Italian passenger a dubious look. "Lovi, are you sure you can do this?"

Romano glared at Spain, lifting his eyes from the scrambled map to do so. "I _will_ get us through France, God damn it!" he swore, continuing to attempt to unfold the map. "Stupid . . . map . . . work, damn you!"

Sighing and turning to the road, Spain brought his eyes back to the street, doubting their hasty arrival in Rome more and more by the minute. _Gracias a Dios_ he knew how to get to the border, at least.

Romano studied the map, turning it every which way, muttering under his breath, "Does it go this way . . . ? No . . . Aha! Got it! Wait, no . . ."

Spain cleared his throat awkwardly, causing Romano to look up from his daunting task for a moment, meeting the Spaniard's eyes before both pairs darted back to what they were doing. "S-so, Lovi . . . about yesterday . . ."

Lovino tensed, his hands freezing on the map. This just . . . was _not_ the time. "Y-yeah, you bastard, I know I didn't fall asleep on your bed s-so how the hell did I get there?" he questioned, not meeting Antonio's eyes. He knew what the Spaniard was _really_ trying to talk about, but, for some reason that wasn't all too clear even to the Italian himself, he deliberately changed the meaning of what Spain was asking to something else entirely, clearly avoiding the topic.

Antonio paused for a moment, arms locked in place on the steering wheel and eyes never breaking from the road. The only indication that he was thinking of what to say was in his pursed lips and the slight furrow of his brow.

Lovino shifted awkwardly, waiting for Antonio to respond and yet dreading for him to do that same thing.

Finally, Spain broke the uncomfortable silence, "When I got home you were on the couch. I was going to move you up to your bed, but I got too tired to carry you across the house, so I just put you in mine." Then he added, "But that's not what I wanted to—"

"Pay attention to the road, idiot," Lovino muttered, interrupting the driver. He didn't break his eyes from the map in his hands; he was sure if he met Antonio's bright emerald orbs he would break down, though the manner in which he would do so was unclear.

Lovino didn't know exactly why he was avoiding talking about what had happened with Antonio. There were the obvious reasons: he was embarrassed, he was nervous, he wasn't ready; the list went on. Lovino felt it was something different than that, though, something less simple than how he was feeling at the moment. Maybe it had to do with the fact that he was scared, or confused, or how he was just barely figuring out these feelings for himself and wasn't at all sure how to express them. Or maybe it was all of those things combining to make the perfect awkward Italian.

Whatever the reason(s) may be, Lovino was almost certain there was no way he was going to talk about them right now, especially not with the object of his aforementioned feelings and affections.

o.0.O.0.o

Approximately seven hours later—including food, bathroom and gas—the medium-sized car reached the French border and passed through with no trouble. Only, Spain knew he _was_ in fact in trouble at the moment. Sometime during the ride between the last small Spanish city they had stopped in and the border, Romano had fallen asleep. Deep asleep.

He really should have seen it coming, he realized. Antonio couldn't name a single car ride wherein Lovino had _not_ fallen asleep, not since the Italian's first time in a car just over a hundred years ago, and that was because he was too busy screaming at the top of his lungs in fear to fall asleep.

Regardless, Spain was more than a bit worried. Not only was he now in a country he was not familiar with modern day, but it was dark, he was getting tired, and was most definitely more than a bit hungry. He pulled over to the side of the highway, parking the car far out of the way of the few speeding vehicles still navigating their way down the busy parkway.

Antonio groaned, slamming his head forward in frustration and accidentally hitting the horn with his forehead, scaring himself as he jumped up, yelping. He glanced over to where the Southern Italian was laying, surprised, but not overly shocked, to see that he had slept through the entire ordeal.

Deciding that waking Romano, though most likely a lost cause, was a good thing to try, Spain reached over to the smaller man and shook him lightly, calling his name as he did so, "Lovi . . . Lovi, come on, wake up, _por favor_."

When his attempts to rouse the slumbering Italian proved fruitless, Spain leaned back into his own seat, sighing again. Well, he'd have to try getting to the Italian border himself, then. He got back onto the highway, an idea striking him as he did so. He would keep the water in view! If he remembered correctly, most of the route was bordering water, so he shouldn't have to worry! And it was perfect; if he followed the water then the only part of France he'd cover would be the small section between the countries of Spain and Italy, A.K.A. the parts he needed to cross.

To the more than slightly airheaded Spaniard, it was a flawless plan, one that couldn't possibly go wrong.

Of course, it did just that.

About a half hour into the ride, the road Spain was on angled away from the sea, and, with no alternate routes in sight, he followed the curve, sending a desperate look at the water before it finally disappeared from view, hoping beyond all hope it would come into sight again shortly.

He hadn't seen it since.

As Spain unknowingly drove deeper and deeper into France, he became more and more desperate. Even after stopping for directions multiple times he was at a loss as to what he should do; it was well past midnight—the sun was probably going to rise soon, actually—and even though he had stopped multiple times for food and bathroom breaks, he was now exhausted and long past ready to switch drivers.

The exhausted Spaniard was on his last nerve, and was more than ready to take any option available to him.

Pulling over to the side of the road, he glanced back across at the slumbering Italian, still amazed at how utterly beautiful he could be when asleep. Of course, Romano was always beautiful, though his scowl hid that sometimes, but the sleep only seemed to annunciate everything that was amazing and awe-inspiring about him. Romano's face was always more peaceful than during any other time when he was asleep, something that surely helped, but Spain didn't think it was quite that which made the sight so truly captivating.

Maybe it was how, when Lovino slept, Antonio got the chance to truly study him without worrying about being injured in some way. Or, maybe it was that fact that when Lovino wasn't being forcibly toughened and outwardly abrasive—both in his words and looks—he was seen to the average man as something untouchable, something not truly human. (He wasn't, but that wasn't the point.)

It was an odd thought, that last consideration. It was true that most of Lovino's faults were only visible when he was awake and, well, talking, or in how he acts a lot of the time. Of course, more were barely visible even then, with his self-conscious attitude that he hid, protected behind hundred meter high barriers.

One phrase in that rather tangent-like list of thoughts stood out to Spain: self-conscious. It described Romano rather perfectly, and Spain, more than anyone, knew that. Was that the cause for the Italian's earlier subject change when he brought up the kiss? It must have been. That and embarrassment, which was only natural, and which Romano seemed to have a lot of trouble dealing with.

Spain groaned again, this time throwing his head back against the seat with a dull thump. _Enough daydreaming_, he told himself sternly, _time to figure out how to get out of France_.

Speaking—thinking?—of which . . . He directed his emerald orbs to the dashboard, specifically the clock and had to hold back another moan. It was about quarter past five, otherwise known as the next day. He was _so_ glad he slept the entirety of yesterday or else he was sure he would have crashed long ago. At this point Spain had been driving for eleven hours, give or take thirty minutes, just less than half of which had been aimless driving and drifting across the countryside.

He was _not_ driving any longer.

Determined, Antonio unbuckled hurriedly, opening the door of the car and speed walking over to the passenger side, opening it as soon as the handle was in reach. He leaned down awkwardly over Lovino, placing their faces only a few inches apart. The close proximity brought heat to Antonio's face, but he ignored it in favor of the task ahead.

There were only a few things that would wake Lovino up: there was 1) throwing water at him or shining sunlight in his eyes, both of which were extremely affective, but unfortunately unavailable to the Spaniard at the time, 2) staring at him and hoping it will wake him up, which it sometimes does, but not after a long time, and 3) tickling.

No matter the situation, no matter how deeply asleep Lovino was, tickling always did the trick, startling the Italian out of sleep. Sometimes it would take a minute or so, depending on exactly how asleep he was, but within that same time Lovino would undoubtedly be awake.

With that fact in mind, Spain lowered his hands to Romano's stomach, readying himself for the possibility that he would end up facing the side affects of using this particular method: pain, and lots of it.

Slowly at first, cautiously, Spain wiggled his fingers gracefully over Romano's midriff, speeding up as Romano groaned and flinched. Encouraged, he continued his motions more surely, moving his hands now all around the Italian's sides. Within thirty seconds Romano was giggling, still mostly asleep but approaching consciousness steadily.

Lovino's eyes opened, the golden-green flashing in and out as he blinked slowly to reorient himself, still giggling under his breath as Antonio's hands continued to ghost over his belly.

When Spain caught sight of the opened eyes, he ceased his movements. "Ah, Lovino, finally. I really need you to—"

Any words he'd been about to say were stopped by Lovino's attack, though it was an attack Antonio really couldn't say he minded much.

Emerald eyes widened as the gears in Antonio's mind slowly turned, forming coherent thoughts despite what was being done to him.

A few words managed to separate themselves in his mind: Lovino, lips, soft, warm.

Lovino was . . . Lovino was kissing Antonio. On the lips. Willingly.

Spain's chest exploded, happiness racing through him like a drug, making his heart thump loudly in his chest, sounding to himself much like the wheels of a train, _ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump_, slowly speeding up as fuel was poured into it. In the train's case it would be coal, but for Antonio it was endorphins, the pure rush of feelings coursing through him as _Lovino kissed him_.

The Italian began moving his lips against the Spaniard hunched over him, enticing that same Spaniard to do the same. Before long Spain was lost in the kiss.

And, truthfully, he didn't think he ever wanted to find his way out.

**And there you go~! When writing that part where Spain start's tickling him I felt like I was writing a lemon or something . . . ha, oh well~! No lemon in this story, though I have decided to (most likely) post a separate one-shot. It has been requested both by a number of my school friends and by a couple of reviewers so I shall oblige~! (Though it won't be out until after I finish this story.)**

**Chibianimefreak out~**


	9. Finally: Arrival

**I realized that I have them sleeping in pretty much every chapter so far . . . I mean, in every one at least one of them falls asleep, I think . . . But not in this one! I refuse!**

**Oh, and in completely unrelated news, I got my braces off~! Yay~! AND I'm happy because the retainer isn't like those crappy metal ones like I thought, but rather these clear ones that fit over your teeth~! Tis wonderful~!**

**Disclaimer: If you've read this far, then not only should you get the idea by now, but you **_**must**_** be enjoying the story enough to not care who the hell Hetalia belongs to . . .**

The mood in the car as it finally drove past the French-Italian border could be called something near tense. Both men within the medium-sized SUV were sitting nearly ramrod straight despite having been sitting in the car for what probably seemed like forever, and neither was speaking or looking at the other. The only sound was the tinny radio, and the single movement in the car occurred every forty minutes or so, when whatever station was playing—but wasn't really being listened to—went out of range and Spain was forced to change it.

It was awkward at best.

It had all started when, just about six hours ago, Romano took the wheel—after pushing Spain off of him and yelling at him with a mix of nonsense words and _a lot_ of swearing. Upon discovering they were in Toulouse, France, about 153 km off track, he proceeded to ask a morning jogger for basic directions back to the highway they had been driving on earlier. The rest of the way was found using some very helpful, now visible road signs and Spain's uncanny knowledge of French cities.

But, ever since Lovino's fumbled conversation with the French jogger—give him a break, he hadn't spoken French in years, and almost never willingly—the car had been silent, or, at least, on the Italian's end. Antonio had tried to make conversation more than once, starting off with normal things like "It looks like it'll be a nice day, don't you think?" and "The sunrise is so pretty, Lovi~!" but slowly transitioning to things that were just plain desperate such as "So the world's round. Who knew, right?" and "Do you think if I hit the dashboard hard enough the air bag will go off?" before finally giving up and falling silent as well.

It was oddly disconcerting to witness the usually-overly-cheerful Spaniard while he was being solemnly silent, and it was slowly grating on Romano's nerves. One would think he'd be happy to have the bastard finally shut up, but it was just too plain abnormal for him to get any kind of satisfaction out of it.

And that is why—not because he was lonely, damn it—Lovino, as they passed through the lovely city of Genoa at eleven o'clock that morning, decided to strike a conversation that wouldn't go awkwardly ignored by the person he was trying to begin it with, as all of Antonio's had been panning out.

Of course, finding a topic with which to do exactly that turned out to be a bit harder than previously thought. Every time Lovino though he might have something that _could_ be considered normal, his mind eventually reached a situation in which their earlier . . . _exchange_ came up.

And that was the last thing he wanted brought up in casual conversation.

The shrill ring of a phone interrupted Romano's indecisiveness, startling him and Spain both out of the rather odd silence they had been stuck in for the second half of the trip. Green eyes met golden ones in shock, holding each other's gaze long enough for it to become weird before the golden orbs pulled away first, searching for the ringing phone.

"I think it's yours," Spain said casually, scaring Romano almost as much as the phone had.

_How can that bastard act so naturally after all that_, he thought, irritated. "Y-yeah," Lovino agreed, grabbing the ringing and vibrating phone—which was in fact his—and glancing at the screen. "Shit," Lovino swore, clicking the green button and putting it to his ear. "_Pro—_"

"_Lovi, Lovi, where are you? We were so worried something happened, ve. Nothing happened, right? Is Big Brother Toni okay? Ve, are you okay? Oh, no, did you fall asleep on the roof and fall off again? Is that why you're late, ve? Are you in the hospital? Oh, no, Lovi, I'm coming right now to visit you please be okay—_"

"I'm not in the fucking hospital, Feliciano!" Lovino massaged his forehead in annoyance. _Sometimes I forget how utterly hopeless he is_, Lovino thought offhandedly, ignoring the chuckling Spaniard to his right.

"_Then why aren't you here yet, ve? Are you not coming? Did you decide you hate us, Lovi? Ve, no, please come, _Fratello_, I miss you, ve~!_"

"We're on our way right now, you damn idiot," Lovino hissed, maybe adding a growl or two into the mix, "and it would be a_ lot _easier if you would stop fucking _yelling in my ear_ so I could actually—oh, I don't know—_drive_."

Spain snorted at that, earning a very well deserved elbow in the gut from his Italian driver.

"_Ve, I'm sorry, Lovi~!_" Veneziano whined quietly. "_But where are you, _Fratello_? Luddy and I are getting worried~!_"

Romano navigated across the dotted line and into the lane to the left of the one he was previously in, scowl deepening at the mention of the German. "I don't give a shit what the damn potato thinks," he growled.

"_Ve, be nice to Luddy, _Fratello~!" the younger Italian chided. Romano could imagine perfectly the condescending pout on his brother's face as he berated his older sibling. It was doing nothing to sate his grumpled mood.

"Like hell," Lovino mumbled. "Listen, _idiota_, we're just pulling out of Genoa now, so calm the fuck down, we'll be there in four hours, damn it." Just as Lovino said those words, the beautiful city of Genoa passed behind them, the buildings getting smaller and the grass a bit greener.

"_Ve, yay~! But why are you and Big Brother Spain running so late, Lovi?_"

Romano clutched the steering wheel a bit tighter in his one hand, feeling his face heat up slightly as he recalled yesterday's "lazy day". "N-none of your fucking business," he muttered. Romano ignored the curious look Spain sent him, choosing instead to curse and flip off the person who had just decided to cut in front of their damn car, grabbing the wheel hastily when he realized there was nothing holding it in place.

"_Eh, but Lovi~!_" Feliciano whined childishly. Lovino winced and held the phone away from his face at the high pitch coming over the tinny phone. He waited a moment before hesitantly placing it back over his ear.

"_Stai zitto!_" Lovino growled as soon as it was close enough that Feliciano would be able to hear the annoyance in his voice. A whimper was heard on the other side of the conversation, making Lovino sigh. "_Ascolti_, Feliciano, we'll be there soon, _sì__? Non c'è nulla di cui preoccuparsi_."

"_Hmph. Fine_." Veneziano pouted. The northern Italian was back to his cheery self in seconds, however, and nearly sang as he said, "_Ve, see you soon, then, _Fratello~! Ciao~!"

"_Ciao_." Romano clicked the end call button and all but threw the phone into the cup holder. "Fucking Feliciano, fucking potato bastard, fucking traffic . . ." he muttered under his breath, turning his main attention back to the road, hoping for the rest of the ride to be more peaceful than it had been so far.

Only, Lovino seemed to be forgetting something just _slightly_ important that could possibly inhibit that wish. Well, more than possibly.

"So, that was Feli?" Antonio questioned, raising a single dark eyebrow.

Lovino jumped slightly, suddenly remembering his passenger. "Y-yeah," he began, heart still thumping a bit faster than usual, though whether due to the shock it had received or the memory from earlier that morning he wasn't sure. "Fucking forgot to call him and tell him we're running late." Lovino finally relaxed back into his leather-covered seat, pulse calming and glad the awkwardness from earlier seemed to have dissipated, though still not completely comfortable. "Idiot got all worried."

Antonio grinned, much to Lovino's chagrin. "Aw~! See, he does care about you~!"

Romano sent a death glare his way. "_S-stai zitto_, _bastardo_. That brat just cares about himself and that fucking potato of his. 'We were worried' my ass." Romano's grip tightened reflexively on the steering wheel, teeth grinding and face flaring. That bastard could go fuck himself for all he cared, damn it.

"He does care, you know," Antonio said in a tone too soft for the earlier mood. It startled Lovino slightly, the mood change, enough that he ceased moving almost completely.

"And I do, too," the Spaniard continued in the same low voice. "We both love you a lot, Lovi." He gulped. "I think I can speak for Feliciano when I say this, too, but I know that if you ever did really get into an accident . . . well, I'd be worried beyond belief, and so stressed a-and if I actually lost you . . . I don't know what I'd do." Antonio shook his head, eyes directed downwards, wide and distraught and so terribly green Lovino was afraid the color might turn the world the same startling shade.

As the words slowly stumbled from the Spaniard's mouth, Lovino just as slowly lessened his hold on the wheel until he almost released it, catching the leather-coated technology before the car lost all sense of control and careened off the highway. His own eyes were wide at the prospect of what had just been admitted, their glassy surface just barely focused enough on the asphalt and traffic to keep the car in steady motion.

Th-that sounded quite a bit like a confession. But a confession of what exactly?

"You don't have to worry, bastard," Lovino mumbled quietly, almost more to himself than to the one next to him, "I'm not leaving you any time soon."

Romano almost thought Spain hadn't heard the whispered reassurance, but for the smallest movement of the brown-mop-covered head towards the Italian, just a slight inclination of his chin towards the left, eyes still not meeting, and yet such an indication of acknowledgement in that movement. Romano wasn't sure whether to be glad or scared that he had been heard, but couldn't help but feel a slight contentment, a slight feeling of elation, of a weight being lifted off his shoulders upon knowing they had been heard.

The last hours of the trip rolled by in content silence, neither passenger exchanging much more than pleasantries and the occasional interesting sight, but it wasn't too long before the red car was pulling up the drive to the fairly large house owned by Veneziano and Romano—though it was really their government's, but they didn't sweat the details.

Almost as soon as the car rolled to a stop, Romano unbuckled and stretched his back arching off the seat behind him and arms reaching towards the roof of the car, brushing past the fabric lightly, before collapsing back down just as suddenly. "Finally," he sighed, "that drive was too fucking long."

Spain hummed in agreement absentmindedly. He still hadn't moved since the vehicle stopped in front of the house, and was instead staring off at some unidentifiable point in the distance.

Then, suddenly, just as Romano was reaching to pull open his door and stretch for real, Spain spoke again. "Lovino," he said, voice laced with a kind of finality Romano was scared to hear, "I need to know, just . . . what did those kisses mean to you?"

Lovino froze, his heart in his throat. He wasn't ready, h-he just wasn't ready to talk it out, no, no, no, no, no—

"I . . ." the nervous Italian met Antonio's emerald eyes hesitantly, and was startled by what he saw in them. Clear, unbridled longing was reflected in their depths, shining true. It startled Lovino, yet at the same time invigorated him, reassured him that maybe, just maybe, he wasn't crazy.

Lovino felt a sudden resolve fill him. "I did it because . . . b-because . . ." He broke off, eyes glancing away for a second before he nodded to himself and met Antonio head on. "I love you. That's why I kissed you, and absolutely dissolved when you kissed me, and why I really want to kiss you again, a million times over, and just never stop because I love you so much, Antonio and I—"

His rant was cut short by a pair of soft lips pressing against his own, not gently or hesitantly like the others had been, but rather desperate and needy. It wasn't sexual, just filled with an amount of repressed hope and doubt that Lovino could completely understand.

And so he showed it.

Lovino responded, not hesitating a second when Antonio dubiously asked for permission to enter allowing it and embracing the newly deepened kiss passionately.

It wasn't perfect—teeth clashed, noses mashed—but it was such a brilliant display of how each was feeling at the moment—a cascade of feelings finally breaking free—neither cared, each enjoying it for all it was worth.

When the need to breathe finally outweighed that to stay latched to one another, they broke apart, panting, grinning, flushed, but so satisfied, because finally—_finally_—they were each truly _with_ the other, all insinuated meanings now applying to the statement.

"I love you, too, Lovino," Antonio muttered against his new lover's lips. He tilted his head forward for another kiss and was met halfway by Lovino.

This time it was slow and meaningful, light and airy, but so full of love and tenderness that neither cared how passionless it was compared to the previous one.

It was peaceful.

That is, until:

"Ve, look, Luddy, Lovi and Big Brother Toni are kissing~!"

**Yeah, I **_**am**_** gonna torture you all with another chapter~! Yay~! But don't worry, it'll be the last one, and more of a closure chapter than anything. **

**It's kinda weird, though. For once something ended up being **_**shorter**_** than I originally planned rather than the opposite . . . huh . . .**

**Chibianimefreak out~**


	10. A Temporary Conclusion

**Here we go, last chapter~! I won't keep you for long, just to say that starting next/this week I will have a new fic up, so go check it out if you'd like~! **

**Disclaimer: Again, ten chapters, ten chances to hate on this, ten chances you didn't take. **

Lovino sat alone on the plush white couch, glass of red wine in hand, and keeping Feliciano's warning to not allow the ruby liquid to spill onto the furniture, lest it stain it a deep red, in mind. The background ambiance was nice and relaxing, fairly surprising considering how many of the usually insane nations were present at the moment, but not at all unwanted by those attending, most of all Lovino.

But, despite the moderately happy mood, Romano was scowling, deep and angrily. This, of course, wasn't unusual, except, at the moment, the harsh expression was directed at a scene across the room, specifically a scene within which Spain and Veneziano were talking animatedly, pausing every moment or so to laugh at something one or the other said.

It irked him in quite an annoying way, unsettling his mood and making him even more irritable than usual. It's not to say, of course, that he'd be much happier were this _not_ to be occurring; social parties simply weren't his thing, and the fact that Antonio had not once spoken to him since the party had begun was only making it marginally worse than it would have been otherwise.

Really, he didn't care _that_ much if that bastard decided to ignore him. It wasn't _that_ big a deal. It's not like either of them meant anything big when they made those confessions yesterday.

Lovino huffed, snapping his head from the sickening scene and gulping down the last of his wine. He glared at the empty glass. It was lucky; _it_ didn't have to worry about obnoxious, annoying Spaniards.

_I need another drink_, Lovino thought suddenly, standing up rather abruptly and knocking into the person who had been—completely unbeknownst to the Italian—leaning over his sulking form.

Surprised emerald eyes met annoyed olive ones for only a moment before the latter pair darted back to the kitchen, the source of his wanted alcohol. "Move, bastard," the owner of the olive shaded orbs muttered, trying to push away from the Spaniard.

Spain pouted childishly, refusing to let Romano pass by him and escape from the small space between the coffee table and the couch. "That's not a very nice thing to say to the person who came to solve your loneliness problems," he chided.

"I don't have fucking 'loneliness problems', _bastardo_," Romano said. "Now back the fuck up, I want another drink." He tried once again to push the Spaniard away, this time successfully.

It was successful, that is, until the bastard began to _follow_ him to the kitchen. While humming. _Annoyingly_.

"Leave me the fuck alone," Lovino nearly growled as the two of them emerged into the otherwise empty, much quieter kitchen. _And just go find my brother again_, he added silently, the thought deepening his scowl.

"Aw, but I thought you loved me, Lovi~!" The Spaniard grinned hugely—and creepily—at the disgruntled Italian.

Romano's eyes widened and he spun around, clamping a hand over Spain's mouth. "Not so fucking loud, you bastard! Do you want ever single fucking person in the other room to know?" he hissed.

Antonio gave him a curious look. "Mwy cumn deh nm?"

Lovino deadpanned. "Are you really trying to talk like that?" he asked.

When the Spaniard nodded enthusiastically, Romano sighed, releasing his hold. He looked at his roommate expectantly. "What?"

Spain licked his lips—which did _not_ make Romano blush _at all_—and opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, Veneziano came bursting into the room, slamming the door into Spain's back and effectively causing the Spaniard to fall against the wall behind the door. With a painful sounding _oof_ he slid down onto the ground.

Feliciano's eyes fell upon Lovino, and he waved excitedly. "Ve~! Hi, Lovi~!" The cheerful Italian looked around the room curiously, as if searching for something. "Ve, where's Big Brother Toni? I thought he came in here with you, ve~."

Lovino rolled his eyes and pointed to the space behind his brother where the idiotic Spaniard was still lying, holding his head—which must have hit the wall as he fell—and moaning pitifully.

The northern Italian turned on his heels, hands flying up sporadically when he saw the pained Spaniard. "Oh no, ve, Antonio, are you okay? I'm sorry, I'm sorry, ve, please don't hate me, please, ve, ve!" Feliciano knelt in front of Antonio, to, Lovino suspected, examine him.

"It's okay, Feli," Antonio groaned, eyes looking slightly pained, but more amused at Feliciano's reaction than anything, smiling at the younger of the two Italian brothers.

"Serves the idiot right," Lovino grunted. He turned from the sickening scene and walked over to get the alcohol he had aimed for originally. Lovino grabbed the bottle from the decorative shelf they were temporarily placed on and poured himself a generous helping of the ruby liquid, only stopping when the hibiscus was less than an inch from the top.

"Ve, that's not very nice, _Fratello_," Feliciano whined.

Romano turned, leaning against the counter, and was greeted by Veneziano's pout. The northern Italian was still crouched in front of Spain, but was turned to face his brother.

"Bastard deserves it after ignoring me all fucking night," Lovino huffed, cheeks heating when he realized exactly what he'd admitted. "Whatever, just go have fun together, you two." Lovino shuffled quickly out the door without looking at the two nations he left behind, sheltering his over-full glass in both hands so as not to spill it with his quick steps.

"Lovi! Lovi, wait!"

Romano paused in the middle of the living room, not turning to face Spain, who had recently burst through the kitchen door, effectively creating a scene. The nations—the ones who had bothered to look up—quickly went back to whatever they were doing, however, when they noticed it was simply Spain and Romano being obstructive; they were one of the usual pairs. And anyways, they were all waiting/dreading for when Prussia and France finally arrived—all attending assumed they had gotten lost on the way, or "accidentally" crashed into a nearby brothel again—and once discovering the interruption was not the two obstructive men, went back to the more-than-slightly-boring-but-it-was-okay-because-there-was-food party.

A hand was placed on Lovino's shoulder, and he flinched at the sudden contact.

"Lovi?" Antonio questioned hesitantly, breath brushing Lovino's ear. "Are . . . are you jealous of me and Feliciano?"

Lovino remained pensive for a moment, wondering how exactly to voice what he was thinking. He wasn't used to doing so, and wasn't sure he wanted to start now. It was a lifestyle choice, or maybe it was simply part of his personality to not allow people into his thoughts. Either way, it was not so unusual a situation as it was uncomfortable for him.

"No," Lovino muttered after a moment.

Spain didn't respond, his grip on Romano's shoulder tightening ever so slightly. "I don't believe you," he said quietly.

Romano finally turned, knocking Spain's hand off him as he did so. "Then you're an idiot," he scoffed, sipping his nearly overflowing drink. "There's nothing to be jealous of, you're just a damn tomato bastard anyway and I'm just a fucking—" Romano bit his lip, silencing himself before he let his tongue slip, as had occurred earlier. His eyes darted away, finding a spot on the carpet that was _very_ interesting.

"I know I'm an idiot," the Spaniard said, his face uncharacteristically serious, "and a bit oblivious—" Romano rolled his eyes at that. "—but I when it comes to my Lovi, I will never let myself overlook something, because if I do . . ." he hesitated.

Lovino directed his eyes back to Antonio, and they locked gazes. The intensity of the older nation's look surprised the younger slightly.

"If I do," Antonio continued, "Lovi will get hurt." Antonio raised his hand and poked the left side of Lovino's chest lightly, directly over his heart. "Right here."

Lovino involuntarily reached his hand up to grab Antonio's softly, the slightly paler hand cupping the darker one with more gentleness than he knew he was capable of. "I-I . . ."

Antonio squeezed Lovino's hand lightly, smiling wanly. "I did mean it, you know, yesterday. I don't want you to ever worry about me not loving you, Lovino, because, I swear, I do with all my heart. I love _you_, not your brother, _comprendes_?"

Romano didn't reply. By now his eyes had found themselves directed downwards again, but not in despair as before, but rather in embarrassment, and self-consciousness.

Slowly, hesitantly, he nodded.

Understandably, he wasn't completely convinced, and, Spain knew, it would take time: months, years, decades, he didn't know exactly, but he was determined to completely persuade Romano of his devotion to the _older_ of the Italian brothers. It was something he swore to long ago, and, though now it was on a different level, he would not waver in the slightest from his task, but rather make a new effort towards it.

This was but the first step.

The Spaniard gripped Lovino's chin, rubbing small circles over the Italian's cheeks, cherishing him. Antonio leaned in, tilting Lovino's head up towards his own as he did so, and kissed Lovino gently on the lips.

A loud wolf whistle sounded, and the two jumped apart.

Unsurprisingly, there, in the doorway, coats still on and obviously just arriving, were France and Prussia, the former with a smirk and knowing eyes and the latter with a large, slightly feral, grin on his face.

"Score, Antonio!" Prussia exclaimed, walking across the room—all eyes now focused on the trio—and slapping Spain on the back.

Lovino glared daggers at the two, though, he wondered off-handedly as the three best friends chatted amiably, Antonio shooting Lovino happy looks every so often, he wasn't so sure if it was because it was the Bad Touch Trio just being _them_ or from annoyance due to his and Antonio's forced parting.

Whatever the case, he was almost certain—whether he would acknowledge it consciously or not—he was happy at the moment.

The glare slowly faded from Romano's face, and a small smile replaced it. "I love you too, idiot."

**Sappy chapter is sappy. **

**This chapter is the last, sorry. Sequel hinted at? Maybe, probably not. Anyways, I really tried to focus on the more emotional aspect of their relationship with this little chapterette (it was short…) as someone reviewed with the observation that this story seemed to be more geared towards a physical, high school-esque love/attraction kind of thing, and I completely agree. Of course, the fact being that I **_**am**_** a high school student experiencing cliché love-ish things myself, that **_**isn't**_** the most surprising thing. Sorry for the random explanation/rant, just trying to explain the cliché-ness behind this story in general. **

**But anyways, as mentioned at the beginning of this chapter, new story will be out, this one a three-shot or something similar (maybe a long one-shot). It's called **_**An Antipodean Love Story**_** or **_**An Antipodean Tale of Love**_** (I have yet to decide, leave your suggestions?) so look out for it~! It **_**is**_** Spamano, so don't worry~!**

**OMGIFINISHEDASTORY! This is officially my first finished chapter story on fanfiction ever, and my first multi-chapter Spamano story that has been posted ever. I hope y'all enjoyed it~!**

**Chibianimefreak out~**


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